On the Nature of Daylight
by latibule
Summary: The year is 1943. Emilia Rösner, a former nurse and Agent for the British, is assigned a short assignment as a Liaison officer for the 506th Airborne Infantry – unbeknownst to her, however, she's just started on a path from which there's no return, and such is a path that is much closer to home than ever she could have imagined. (Eventual paring)
1. Prologue

_On the Nature of Daylight_

PROLOGUE

...

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Sharp words cut across the air, made thick by tension, and his hand wrapped tight about her arm. She tried to pull away, but it was to little avail – he was stronger than she was, and no amount of pulling or pushing could change that fact. He was a soldier in every sense of the word, and if there were no war he still would be, for it was in his nature; one could use a pistol as a paperweight, but it would remain just as deadly no matter. "You're going to get yourself killed. Is that what you want?"

"What I _want_ is for you to let me go." Came her reply, a simple slip of tongue spilling harsher notions than intended. In the broader sense of the question, she had little idea what she wanted – was it death, or rectification? Or, perhaps, with one came the other. But, in that moment, there was no time to lend her thoughts to theories, for all around shells were exploding and death, death, death.

"_Let me go,_" she pleaded again, desperation slipping into a voice that had once held such strength.

The tight grip lessened, but only marginally and out of the mere worry he had in hurting her – hurting her was not his intention, but neither was it to let her leave. "I won't," he responded at length, pulling her so her face was inches from his own. "I'd sooner take a bullet myself than watch you run out into open fire. Are you mad?"

"I'm not going to die," she retorted, only half believing the words. "I'm leaving, and you're _not_ going to stop me." The words were accentuated with another pull from his grasp, but it did little more than accent her words. In her grief she'd gone mad, and it seemed a small price to pay: a few moments of physical pain to end years upon years of emotional. In her haste, should be struck down… why, there was little protest to the idea. The future looked so bleak, and fear had taken grasp on her heart for the first time since she'd left Poland – she no longer recognised herself.

"You wouldn't make it out of here, let alone another thousand kilometres on your own." He shot back, wanting to at least pierce the wall she'd built up. "And if they catch you? You'd be shot—"

"Don't—"

"You'd leave the men?" He asked, effectively knocking all the fight from her already weary bones, and all it had taken were four words. Four words, and she was rendered completely speechless. A look of satisfaction flashed across his dark eyes, and at long last, he released the grip on her arm – it felt colder in his hand's absence, and her hand rose instinctively to rub where it had been. He remained close to her, studying her conflicted features before speaking once more: "Go on. Make your choice then, Emilia. I'm not going to stop you."

...

Happy Veteran's Day to all who have fought for their countries, and to those who continue to do so.

Author's Note: I'm a sucker for mysterious prologues, what can I say? I know none of this makes sense, but please rest assured that it will all come together soon. I'll be posting the first chapter immediately after this, in fact. More to the point of this author's note, however, I've read some pretty amazing stories on here and they inspired me to take a shot at writing for both an era I love, and a story that never ceases to move me. I'd like to give special thanks to user finnobhair for encouraging me to write this in the first place, so thank you very much!

Disclaimer: I have nothing but respect for the men of the 506th, and in writing this story I wish only to broaden my creative horizons, not claim ownership over the true heroes in any way, shape, or form. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter I

"And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness." _—_ Silvia Plath

* * *

Aldbourne, England  
10 October 1943

The journey to Aldbourne hadn't been long, nor had it been a particularly strenuous one, but it had given her time to think – or to try not to.

She'd driven in from London in the later hours of the night, the dusk eventually fading into a darkness that settled over the English village not long before she'd arrived. She turned off of the main road by the parish church, navigating slowly through the unsealed road, her eyes adjusting to the heavier darkness. There hadn't been any other cars since she'd gotten off the M4, and in the absence of any visible life she felt an eeriness settle over her. Once daylight made it's ascent over the town, she knew it would be full to the brim with soldiers and civilians alike, but as she drove then it seemed a deserted, lonely place. Perhaps it would remain the same even when there were people about.

She saw the outline of two houses at the end of the road, and recognised the smaller of the two as the one she'd been quartered at. Both lay dark; there were no lights anywhere, save the shine of her headlights. She parked on the street, sighing once as she removed the keys from the ignition. When she stepped out of the car, she made sure not to slip on the dew, and trod carefully as she moved back and forth between car and house, emptying the boot of the two suitcases she'd brought along.

Her hosts weren't home, and would not be for a few days still, she'd been told they were visiting family elsewhere in Wiltshire. She was glad for it, though, her late arrival would have woken up them up if not the unpacking that came afterwards. Still, it would have been nice to be received, but most nice things were too much to ask for these days. A note had been left on a small, wooden table for her though:

_Miss Emilia — make yourself at home._

– _H&amp;C_

That was as far as her welcome had gone.

The neighbouring house was little more than a silent shadow, looming in the night beyond the light where she had been walking. Emilia felt as if she'd been dropped into a world of absolute silence and solitariness. And that night, as she lay in a bed where her body was as unfamiliar as a round peg in a square hole, in a house that didn't know her yet (and likely never would), she felt as if she were absolutely nowhere at all.

—

Across the small threshold, a man stood looking out the window and down upon the new arrival. His own house was kept in darkness, too, dark and warm as the couple that hosted him kept the house well heated. If not for the clear, night's sky he wouldn't have been able to see much, just the two yellow eyes of the windows across the field. He didn't usually entertain himself by gazing out windows, the view didn't hold much for him, and after the stretching days of training all he ever wanted to do was collapse into the bed and find peace for however long he could.

Yet there he was, by the window, intently watching the movements of the figure in the darkness. He'd expected the arrival, hearing of it in passing when in the company of higher-ranking individuals than himself, but he was taken aback by his own reaction. The fact that he was there, by the window, watching.

He knew nothing more about his new neighbour than what he'd heard around brass and what he'd been able to observe just then: a young woman, short—or, not tall. Twenty or twenty-five, perhaps? He wasn't so good at telling ages. Slim figure, with dark, wavy hair. She wouldn't last long if she was as delicate as she looked, that much was a surety, but he wouldn't bother himself with thinking on it anymore than that. His curiosity was sated with that small glimpse; anything more was merely a distraction.

For now.

—

_The next day…_

"Colonel Sink, sir, I hope you've brought this young lady into our presence for a better purpose than subjecting her to the outrageous behaviour of _Private Gordon_." Herbert Sobel's voice rang loud and sharp, his scrutinising eyes burning holes into the figure of the private he'd called out, who stood tall beside his fellow paratroopers, despite the attempt at shame his commanding officer had issued. It was an impressive sight, for men were so often creatures of pride, their deepest wounds being to the dignity they were so often nurtured into having, but such seemed not the case here.

These were not men, but paratroopers – all other titles came after that one.

"We won't keep you long, Captain. Now," The Colonel began, drinking in the sight of his men, pride gleaming behind his eyes. "I know you all men here are tired, still getting used to the way things run around here, and I've gotta say that I'm damn proud of you boys for the way you've been handling this. Assimilating into a new culture is a hard thing to do, but I've got the highest confidence that you will all continue to do so with no error. That being said, I've got one more thing for you all to take note of…" The Colonel paused, heavy boots clunking against the dirt as he moved to the side, arm outstretched toward the woman he'd approached with. "This, here, is Agent Rösner. The British have understandably taken an interest in the best damn companies the 506th can offer, so I expect more of the same, boys. Let's show our hosts just how good we are." Shifting attention from men to woman, Sink looked at their newest addition expectantly, communicating without words that this was, now, her turn to say something.

Hesitation could be easily understood, especially on the part of a woman thrown suddenly in the mix with men she did not know or understand, but despite the uncertainty in speaking so suddenly and without real warning, she stepped forward and rose to the challenge. This assignment may not have been one she necessarily wanted nor welcomed with open arms, but it would be one she'd execute with the same dedication she dictated to all her work.

"Gentlemen," she started, "I'm Agent Rösner and I'll be overseeing all operations for this battalion, acting both as your liaison and intelligence officer. I'm looking forward to working with all of you and informing my supervisor's of, as the Colonel stated, the finest company in the 506th." She nodded, eyes meeting Sink's once again in recognition that she'd finished, missing the few smiles shared between some of the men in E-company.

"Carry on, Captain Sobel." He saluted the Captain, then his men, before leading the agent on to where D-company was training. It was only when they were a few paces from E-company's location that he spoke, beneath his breath and with the slightest hint of a smile: "I think you'll fit in here just fine, Agent."

—

The canteen was nearly full to the brim with soldiers, all shuffling past one another with low grunts of acknowledgment as they made their ways to the tables, all focused mainly on the hunger that had been building inside them from the moment they'd finished digesting breakfast.

Bill Guarnere regarded his plate of food with a sneer, lips curled at the minced meat he'd not yet grown accustomed to. The aversion rolled off his shoulders with ease, however, remembering both the words of the Colonel ("Assimilating into a new culture is a hard thing to do, but I've got the highest confidence that you will all continue to do so with no error.") and the bitter truth that, once the invasion came rolling around the corner and his sorry ass was in Europe somewhere, he'd be _wishing_ he had grub like this in his stomach.

"I just don't see why we've gotta have her around," His tongue clucked against the roof of his mouth, and he followed closely behind the form of Joseph Toye, both making way to their company tables. "Makes no sense to me."

"Nothing makes sense to you." Came Joe's response, regarding his friend with half of a grin as they sat beside their other comrades.

"I thought you'd like havin' a skirt around, Guarnere." Chuck Grant chuckled, popping a pea into his mouth while regarding the other men with a grin.

"Are you kiddin' me? His mouth is open enough as it is without some pretty dame dropping it even farther to the ground." Don Malarkey said, sitting down with an audible 'oof' across from Toye.

"Hey, it ain't got nothing to do with her bein' a _her_, alright?" Guarnere stated, after giving Malarkey a rough shove on the shoulder. "I just don't like it—don't trust it; the British sendin' in some spy to check up on our work. What? Do they not trust us to do our fuckin' job or somethin'?"

"She's not a spy." David Webster sighed from across the table, eyes swimming with vexation, as he put down the book that had been previously keeping his attention – his own fault to try and read in the company of his comrades. "The British have been in this war longer than us, and they've invested a lot in it. It makes sense that they'd want a liaison officer here, we're _allies_. Besides, you're all worked up over the British _supposedly _not trusting us, when you don't even trust them."

"David fuckin' Webster, always the voice of reason." Joe Liebgott added in, shoving the blue-eyed man slightly, whereupon they both dissolved into banter.

"Well, I think she's real nice." Darrel Powers said, washing down his mince with a cup of water. "Got the sweetest smile I seen since I was back in Clinchco."

"Keep it in your pants, Shifty." Luz grinned, mussing up the rifleman's hair.

"Rösner, though? Ain't that a Kraut name?" Penkala spoke up.

"Ain't Penkala an idiot name?" Muck said, fondly.

"Alright, alright, alright, _listen_," Guarnere put his fork down. "We already got Sobel jumpin' down our necks, so if they want to know whether or not we work well under pressure I think it's safe to say that we fuckin' do. Look, if higher-ups wanted to send someone in here to check up on us, at the very least, couldn't they have sent us an _American _liaison officer? Huh?" He looked at the other men expectantly.

Webster had begun to piece together his reply – most likely reaffirming the prior point that he had made about allies and the like – but he quickly closed his mouth once more, picking up his book and hiding his face behind it.

"Perhaps," came a voice from behind them. "It was accredited to the fact that they wanted the job done _right_, Staff Sergeant." Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere both turned slowly, addressing the new voice with similar expressions – akin, maybe, to a child getting caught with his or her hand in the cookie jar.

Emilia Rösnerwas stood with her hands on her hips, regarding Guarnere with a stare that was quite far from impressed – though, beneath the surface, it could be argued that there lay just the slightest hint of amusement.

There was utter silence.

"Ma'am." Toye nodded toward her in clipped greeting, turning back to face his comrades with an expression that so clearly expressed his wish for death. He wasn't too keen on being on the collective shit lists of all his superior officers, especially not before they'd even seen any action.

"Didn't mean no offense, Queen Victoria." Guarnere said, gruffly, earning a prolonged "oh" from Warren Muck and Alex Penkala, of which had been silenced rather swiftly with a glare from the woman. The other men kept their heads down though, in the same mind of Joe for the most part – Rösnerwas subordinate to Sink and to Sink alone. They weren't too fond to see where her ruffled feathers could and would land them.

She arched a singular brow at the man, bending to eye level without having missed a beat. "That'll be _Your Majesty _to you, _Gonorrhoea_." The words parted from red lips in an irritable timbre, yet it was quickly replaced with a wry smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Straightening her back, the Agent nodded toward the other men, before turning on her heel and walking out of the canteen doors.

There was a low whistle upon her departure, from on of the Able Company boys, and then things were back to being just as they had been a few moments earlier. Guarnere turned back to his company, a crooked grin splitting his face.

"Ain't so bad at all, that limey."

—

It was not until the late afternoon that Emilia was, at last, able to break away from the stuffy offices and chatter of Battalion Headquarters. Since she'd arrived, she'd been longing to walk through the rolling hills and green lands Aldbourne had to offer, for in her life she was so often surrounded by more urban settings. Then, as she walked through the open air in the village, she felt as though it was the first time in years that she'd been able to properly fill her lungs with fresh air. One couldn't find much fresh air in London, it was tainted always with fumes of some kind, nor had there been any to speak of in her previous home. But, she dared not think of that. This was meant to be a relaxing walk, one to clear her mind—not furthermore clutter it with thoughts better left unbothered.

She stopped her gait upon reaching a bunch of trees, reaching into her coat's pocket to find her cigarette case. Emilia had been trying to quit smoking so much, using it only as a stress relief rather than a social gesture, but with times of late that seemed to make no difference at all; she was more stressed than she was social. Pulling the polished, silver case out of the pocket, she opened it to acquire the stick, but found her hand stilled suddenly by the sound of combat boots and muffled shouted.

Well, if the Germans had chosen now to invade, that would certainly be awkward.

She stepped behind the greenery, securing the cigarette behind her ear and hiding herself from the incoming platoon—it wouldn't have been such a terrible thing for them to see her, of course, but her first instinct had been to hide away. If she were to put more thought into that, perhaps she would learn something about herself, but that action would have gone directly against her wish to _not think about anything. _Peeking through the gaps in the trees, she recognised the men as Easy Company's first platoon. _No invasion today, then._

"Perconte, Sobel's lost again right?" Skinny spoke first, or at least she thought it was Sisk. She usually prided herself on her ability to learn names quickly, but there were just so many names to remember when it came to Easy Company alone, not to mention the rest of second battalion.

Perconte confirmed, and Skinny swore. "Hey Luz! Luz, c'mere," he called out, and not soon after the technician ran up to meet the huddled group of men. Perconte had a conspiratorial grin in place, and Emilia's eyes narrowed. "Can you do Major Horton?"

"Does a wild bear crap in the woods, son?"

The men all laughed, though in a hushed kind of manner, and Emilia herself even found herself grinning. She'd yet to meet Major Horton—last she heard, he was in London, but judging from the reaction from the men she could only assume that the imitation was accurate.

"Maybe the good Major can goose this schmuck; get us moving?" Perconte suggested, and Emilia's expression fell.

George shifted uncomfortably. "No. No way, I'm not gonna—"

Muck interrupted him, "Oh yeah! Luz, you gotta. C'mon." The other men joined in on the encouragements, shoving and whispering, all nearly vibrating with anticipation, desperate both to get moving once more and fool their commanding officer.

"Alright," Luz broke off with a grin. "Just this once. Shh!"

Emilia was, admittedly, rather surprised at this turn of events. She wondered what Captain Sobel had done, to make the men despise him so. In her few dealings with the man, he'd been perfectly cordial, though she doubted he would have treated her with any amount of disregard even if he wanted to. But whatever predisposition they had with the man was of little importance in the grand scheme of things – they may not have liked him particularly, but it could not be argued that he'd shaped some of the best soldiers she'd seen thus far in the war.

Luz cleared his throat, preparing himself for the ruse on their Captain, and Emilia found herself quite invested in seeing how this played out. Surely they would be caught, wouldn't they? Sobel couldn't be so easy to fool… yet, the fact that they would try something in the first place, plus the unfortunate truth of their being lost on a training exercise, seemed to suggest that it was possible.

"Is there a problem, Captain Sobel?" His voice rang out, and Emilia silently moved from her position to peek out on the other end, catching sight of Captain Sobel and two other men in the near distance.

"Who said that? Who broke silence?" Sobel shouted, thereafter speaking quieter with one of the men he was with—his runner, she guessed, Tipper.

"What is the goddamn holdup, Mister Sobel?" Luz – or Horton – spoke again, and the men all seemed to be struggling greatly with keeping their silence.

"A fence, sir, a—_god_. A barbed wire fence, sir!"

"Oh, that dog just ain't gonna hunt!" Emilia put a hand over her mouth, struggling to withhold the laugh that had bubbled up in her throat. The other men, too, couldn't quite remain silent at that comment, and Luz broke his character momentarily to hush his comrades. "Now, you cut that fence and get this _goddamn _platoon on the move!"

"Yes, sir!" Emilia exhaled slowly, not having realised she'd been holding her breath in the first place. She couldn't believe that it had worked, and furthermore she was struggling to reason why she'd _allowed_ it to happen in the first place. But, there she stood, with absolutely no inclination to tell any of the superior officers about what she'd just witnessed. It shouldn't have been such a surprise to her, the insubordination; after all they certainly weren't the first men in the war to play a harmless trick on their superior officer, and they wouldn't be the last.

She peeked through the trees once more, watching the men all whisper victorious amongst one another. Their apparent pride gave her an idea – a trick of her own, really. Grinning to herself, she took the cigarette from behind her ear and placed it between her lips, flicking on the lighter and holding it close to her face as she emerged from her hiding place. Almost immediately did the chatter died down, and the men all looked between themselves with similar expressions of horror – that, in itself, was almost enough to make her laugh. _Almost_.

She walked along the line of men, not sparing any of them a glance as she blew out the smoke from her fag. Once she'd made it to the front of their formation, Emilia looked at both Perconte and Luz, a smirk on her lips. "Impressive." And, then she walked away. The two men stared after her, both with similar feelings of dread building up in their stomachs.

"We're fucked, ain't we?" Perconte said at last.

"We're fucked."

—

Emilia's conscious had, eventually, gotten the better of her despite her better judgement. She was waiting outside one of the offices at Battalion HQ, waiting to catch sight of Captain Sobel—he was meant to be meeting with Colonel Strayer soon on a matter that she only assumed would be the local's outrage at their cows now roaming freely sans their barbed wire fence. There was a part of her that pitied the man, as she so often saw him on his own rather than in the company of his fellow soldiers. Positions in leadership were often a lonely setting, and it tugged at her heart to think of anyone being treated poorly so far from home.

She sprung up from the bench when she saw him nearing the building, and nodded towards him to get his attention. "Captain Sobel."

"Miss Rösner." She bit her cheek, pushing down the urge to correct him with her proper title. _Agent. It's Agent Rösner. _

"I wanted to speak to you about your men," she began, walking alongside him as he went in to the building. "It won't take very long, but I believe it has relev—"

"Excuse my brevity," he cut her off, stopping in the entrance of HQ, and his tone was obviously uninterested in whatever it was she had to say. "But I've got a meeting of importance with Colonel Strayer in a few minutes and I don't have time for this. I think it's all very well that you're here, Miss Rösner, I know it's difficult for women to feel useful during wartime, but I can handle my men just fine without the opinion of an outside source—much less that of a woman."

Emilia felt as though she'd just been slapped across the face. The blatant disregard was one thing, but the dismissal of her sex? "How d—"

"Who was the idiot that cut that man's fence?" Strayer's irate voice cut Emilia off, which was probably for the best as the words about to leave her mouth were less than professional.

Sobel snapped to attention, "I was ordered to, sir."

"By who?"

"Major Horton, sir."

"Major Horton?" Strayer repeated, looking almost amused as they both walked out and away from the building, where cows were littered across the landscape. "Major Horton ordered you to do that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Major _Horton _ordered you to cut that fence?" Strayer questioned once more, and Sobel looked thoroughly annoyed.

"Yes, he did."

"Major Horton is on leave. In London." Strayer said, and Emilia recognised that as the perfect moment for her to cut in and explain what had actually happened. But, she didn't. If anything, she was actually a little glad for the insolence in the man, otherwise she would never have been granted the pleasure of seeing him catch hell for the incident with the fence. It was a petty pleasure, yes, and a better woman would have been able to see the error in her closed lips, but despite that all, all she could do was smirk to herself as Sobel contemplated this strange turn of events.

"Get those cows out of here!"

The Blue Boar, Aldbourne

17 October 1943

The air within the pub had been thick with smoke, putrid too with the heavy scent of alcohol and greasy food. October 17th marked the one-month anniversary of the Airborne's time in Aldbourne, and Colonel Sink had arranged for the Blue Boar to host a celebration of sorts for his men.

The public house was usually an establishment of sorts, reserved for officers only while the enlisted men had to find their way to other pub in town. Consequently, the NCO's of the 506th were thrilled to finally be there. Agent Rösner, on the other hand, was not. There was a short list of things she disliked more than being around intoxicated soldiers, understandably, for they so often were crude and obnoxious in that state. If it had it not been for the personal invitation from Sink, she'd be tucked into bed with a nice cup of tea. But, such was not the case, and there she was.

"Drinking alone?" Emilia looked over her shoulder, seeing the smiling faces of Muck and Luz. "We can't have that."

"Just because a woman is sitting alone, Sergeant Muck, doesn't entail that she's waiting for a man to join her." She responded, coolly, swirling around the whiskey in her glass. "I prefer drinking alone."

"That's kind of depressing, actually," Muck responded with his usual air of sarcasm. "Were you aware that this is a celebration?" At the sight of Emilia's glare, he held up his hands apologetically – though his grin was just as insufferable as it had been when he started talking.

George clapped the other man on the shoulder, moving to lean against the counter beside Emilia. "We won't keep you too long. Just wanted to convey our thanks for not sayin' anything about what happened a few days ago. Thought we'd buy you a drink, that's—"

"What happened?"

"What?"

She grinned. "What do you mean, 'about what happened a few days ago?'"

Muck and Luz looked at each other, sharing a silent question. Muck cleared his throat, feeling awkward in explaining what he thought to be obvious. "I— what you saw, when we were training with Sobel. You didn't say anything about us imitating—…"

She rolled her eyes, the meaning of her question clearly going over their heads. "No, I—was trying to be elusive about it, as in acting as though it never happened, which was a wise choice considering Captain Sobel is a few feet away from us."

"What?" They spoke in unison, and she laughed lightly, watching them both whip their heads around to catch view of Sobel—who, luckily, wasn't paying the least amount of attention to their conversation.

"I hope bullets fly over your heads as easily as common sense, boys."

Luz breathed out a sigh of relief. "You're alright, slim."

"_Slim_? I thought I was Queen Victoria?"

"Slim's shorter; two words was just too long for soldiers like us who don't even got common sense to guide us." Muck said with a wink, and Emilia found herself smiling in response. A pair of shouting men, from Dog Company, caught their temporary attention, and when she turned back to the two men beside her, Emilia's smile had faded.

"Look… in complete honesty, I had every intention of telling Captain Sobel what I saw that day. It would have been unprofessional of me not to," Luz looked vaguely disillusioned, but Muck remained unchanged after the confession.

"But, you didn't." The Sergeant said, plainly.

"No, I—"

"Why didn't you?"

"I…" Emilia shifted uncomfortably in the barstool, unwilling to reveal her own petty reasons behind withholding the truth about their practical joke. It was for no other reason than her own distaste with her behaviour, and the slight hesitation that Muck and Luz would have seen no error in what it was that Sobel had said, despite the fact that it was his very, misogynistic behaviour that saved them from getting caught in the first place.

There was, too, the fact that it had nothing to do with her own sympathies to the men, but to herself instead. "I don't see why that's relevant. The fact that he doesn't know about it should be good enough for you."

Muck shook his head, "Nah. You know what I think, Luz?"

"What do you think, Skip?"

"I think that Slim, here, has got a soft spot for us Easy boys, is what I think."

Luz flashed a lopsided grin. "I think you may be right."

"I wouldn't bet on it, boys." She stood up, giving an over exaggerated sigh of irritation before finishing of the whiskey. While the three had been exchanging words, Emilia noticed a gap in the crowd, and through it the open door leading out into the fresh air looked all too inviting to ignore.

"Now, if you'll excuse me…" She departed for the door, leaving the two men with a genuine smile. With the conversation they'd had, she figured that she'd been social enough for one evening, and present at the celebration long enough – Sink had yet to give any speech or toast, but she doubted her absence would be noted. Besides, there were reports that needed finishing and an analysis on recent transmissions she'd offered to complete before the next day. But, any hope of sneaking out unnoticed had been effectively diminished when another trooper stepped in front of her, successfully cutting off her path to freedom.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." She sighed, impatient.

"Ma'am?" The man greeted, and she recognised him immediately as one of the platoon leaders in D-company – his name, however, was lost on her. For a moment she wondered if Muck had been right; perhaps she did favour Easy Company. The bars on his arm gave her a title, in the least.

"Lieutenant. Forgive my frank behaviour, but I'm really not in the mood to drink or dance with anyone at the moment—"

"I wasn't asking."

"I'm sorry?"

"I wasn't asking you to dance," he clarified, looking unimpressed and somewhat amused by the misunderstanding. "Although, it's only fitting for such an assumption to be made by someone so rude to strangers. Colonel Sink asked me to send you over to his table, he wants to speak with you."

The lieutenant's dark eyes held her gaze for a moment longer before he, too, decided to leave the pub, and she was rendered effectively speechless—though, Emilia certainly couldn't deny that she deserved the discomfort suddenly dealt her way. In her youth, she so often found herself in like situations due to the hasty nature of her assumptions, just as the quote by Oscar Wilde went_: "When you assume, you make an ass out of u and me." _Though, in that circumstance, she felt as though she were entirely the ass.

It was in that moment that one of the Easy Company troopers passed her, and Emilia reached out immediately to grab him by his arm – Bull Randleman, she saw upon seeing his face. "Who was that? The man that just walked out?"

Seemingly caught off-guard by her sudden question, the staff sergeant took a moment to process what the agent had asked in the first place. He followed her gesture towards the door, though, and gave a low whistle once the recognition had come to mind. "Oh, that's Sparky—or, uh, Lieutenant Speirs, D-company. One helluva soldier, if I've ever seen one. Ma'am." He smiled kindly at the woman before continuing on his own way.

Emilia remained still for a few more seconds, looking towards the open door on the other end of the room with an uncomfortable amount of mortification at the exchange she'd just had with Speirs. 'Rude', he had called her, and truthfully speaking it was a slap in the face. Emilia did not want to be perceived as such, for her behaviour with the soldiers thus far was out of respect and professionalism and she didn't want that to be confused with callousness. She opted not to think of it much longer, as she walked towards Colonel Sink, deciding that it would be impossible, after all, for her to be well-liked by all the men in the airborne.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" She approached the table, smiling courteously as all the men that were sitting round stood at her arrival.

"Rösner, yes. Excuse me a moment," He nodded at his companions, clapping one of them on the soldier as he moved towards Emilia. His hand rested on her back, and the Colonel lead her to one of the secluded rooms in the back of the establishment, where she could only assume he'd wish to discuss something private. "Having a good time so far, Agent?"

"Yes, sir, a very good time. I was on my way out, though, just a bit tired…" She turned to look over her shoulder as he closed the door to the room – a study, from the looks of it; it was strange, to go from the loud environment to one so calm. "The Lieutenant said you wanted to speak with me? Is there a problem?"

"We're taking a risk with you here," Colonel Sink's voice cut through the stiff air, a stack of paper hitting the desk followed his words. The Colonel leaned against the edge of the desk, motioning for Emilia to sit down in one of the chairs, which she complied to however hesitantly. "I do _not_ take kindly to being disappointed."

"I understand completely, sir, and I don't plan on disappointing anyone during this assignment." Emilia fought hard to keep her voice level, keeping any confusion from her tone, but she doubted her attempt was successful. "I'm sorry, but I'm not quite sure as to why we're having this conversation." This seemed the kind of discussion that would have been better had the week prior, when she'd first arrived.

"I like to know the people I work with, Agent. Not just the men that will be fighting in this war, but the people that work behind the scenes, too, and the people that operate in the more grey areas of this game. I need to know who I can and cannot trust." He regarded a sheet of paper on the desk, and Emilia was stricken with the sudden realisation that this meeting had been planned beforehand. "I read your file, of course, and put in some inquiries about you."

"Inquiries, sir?" She repeated, tilting her head to the side. There was nothing unsatisfactory in her files, as far as she knew. Otherwise Emilia doubted she would be there at all. "I'm not following."

The Colonel sighed, and rounded the desk to sit in the chair. Emilia was glad for it – she never much liked sitting while a man stood before her, it made her feel inferior. He cleared his throat, regarding the paper for a moment before speaking in turn.

"I know what happened Poland, Agent Rösner."

Emilia's heart sunk at the words, and in no less than a heartbeat it felt as though all the air in the room had vanished completely. Despite the grasp his words had taken on her heart, the woman kept her resolve, though it took most of her willpower to do so.

"What of it, Colonel?" She spoke; her voice cool and bland, her eyes cold.

"Vengeance is what starts wars in the first place, Miss Rösner," he spoke levelly, eyes searching hers for an emotional response she would not give. "You would do well not to bring your personal vendettas with you."

"With all due respect, sir, you're wrong." She stood up, "Vengeance is what ends them."


	3. Chapter II

_Friends, Romans, Countrymen, before anything else, I'd like to apologise for the wait on this chapter. This year got off to a terrible start, which has made finding the time to write incredibly difficult. Because of that, I've made this chapter long as a sort of apology (&amp; also because I love making long chapters). I'd also like to thank everyone that sent reviews, favourited, and followed the story. There is little else as great as knowing people enjoy what you're putting out there, honestly, thank you all so much! It's encouraging, I appreciate it endlessly, and I look forward to reading anything else you send my way. Also, LauRa-ReaDinG-XoX, you're asking the right questions. _

_Now, without any further ado…_

* * *

"How fortunate we were who still had hope I did not then realise; I could not know how soon the time would come when we should have no more hope, and yet be unable to die" — Vera Brittain

* * *

Aldbourne, England  
_30 October 1943_

In the early morning, the low-altitude clouds were forming a thin pink wash across the western horizon which grew thicker as the hour progressed, thickening until a bright orange glow spilled across the sky and hung over the rolling mounds of green. The day's beginning brought, too, a mist that lay in the folds of hills– a forewarning of the cooler weather that would soon follow the season's end. October was coming to a close – and with it, autumn. The magnificent colours of red, orange, and yellow would soon fade into the pale shadows of winter.

Autumn had always been Emilia's favourite season, reminding her of a youth spent in a place where the landscape had been adorned with colourful, falling leaves; and a golden hue always warmed the memories she kept close to her heart. She would be sorry to see it go, but there was always the promise of its return – it seemed the seasons were all that _could _promise any bit of endurance in times of war.

As she walked, her fingers pulled her coat tight about her frame, the morning's breeze sending a chill down her spine. There was a transmission she'd been asked to translate the night prior, by one of the Intelligence officers – Lewis Nixon – and, while it wasn't anything of utmost importance, she still wanted to get them back to him as soon as possible. He hadn't asked her as much as she'd offered, though, for more often than not she found herself with nothing to do. Nixon was the only one in Battalion staff that took her up on offers to help out, and the woman wondered if it was out of an actual need for help or just pity.

Emilia hoped it was the former, but she wasn't quite as good at reading people as she once had been (and she tried not to place too much expectation in men).

She found Nixon not far from the Orderly office, leaning against a little stone wall beside Lieutenant Winters. Both of their eyes were fixed on a few of the E-company men, busying themselves with an impromptu game of basketball. If they were speaking, she couldn't tell, though even if they weren't it still felt odd to approach the pair; for there were so few men as companionable as they were.

Even as they were, just standing in a comfortable silence, she felt as through she would be interrupting some private, secret affair. _Friends, _she thought; how long had it been since she'd had one of her own? Not since before—

Her thoughts were derailed as a regimental vehicle drove past her, very nearly blowing the files from her hand. A moment's inspection revealed that the car carried First Sergeant Evans, and she rolled her eyes at that discovery. Emilia had yet to let go of her disdain for Sobel's prior behaviour with her, and it was no matter that she'd ought to be used to it by then. By relation and relation alone, that very same disdain extended to Sobel's lackey – Evans – who, more than often, seemed absolutely pleased to carry out whatever unfair treatment his commanding officer wished to deal.

She slowed her gait toward the three, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going to happen, nor disrupt it. If they exchanged any greeting beyond their salutes, she did not hear it, catching only the exchange of a sealed envelope and a slight, but aggravating, grin on the Sergeant's face. He saluted again before departing, passing Emilia on his way back to the car – though, if he knew she was there, he gave no indication of the fact. The only thing he acknowledged was the basketball hitting the spare tyre as his car drove away, eyes narrowing on the three men that laughed and whooped.

Nixon caught her eye when she turned back toward the two officers, and she realised with slight amusement that she was already standing in front of them.

"Agent. It's a nice day out, isn't it? I never thought the rain would end."

"Talking about the weather with a woman, Nixon," She frowned. "How is it again that you're married?" Nixon only snorted, taking a drag from his cigarette. Emilia smiled, and turned her attention to Winters, who had already begun opening the envelope. "A letter from your sweetheart, Lieutenant?"

"Wouldn't go so far as to call Sobel that, would you?" He spoke with a hint of mirth in his eye, and made no complaint when both Nixon and Rösner leaned over him to read what the note had said.

_Company E, 506th PIR, 30 October '43  
Subject: Punishment under 104th AW  
To: 1st Lt. R. D. Winters  
1\. You will indicate by indorsement below whether you desire punishment under 104th AW or trial by Courts Marcial for failure to inspect the latrine at 0945 this date as instructed by me.  
Herbert M. Sobel, Capt., Commanding._

Emilia wasn't as surprised as she'd ought to have been, but it was still more than ridiculous. Court Martial Winters? And for something as trivial as a latrine inspection, nonetheless. It certainly wasn't far from Sobel to play dirty, that much was obvious, but the act seemed to be low – even for him. She wanted to encourage him to protest it, tell him to stick it to Sobel in the most un-ladylike way there was, but it wasn't exactly her place to do such a thing. She was there to oversee operations, not influence them in any way – significant or otherwise.

"_Oh_, for crying out loud…"

"Misspelled Court Martial," was Nixon's addition.

"… And endorsement," Emilia looked up. "I should buy that man a dictionary."

"You shouldn't waste the money." Winters tucked away the envelope into his front pocket, a grimace on his face. Yet, despite it all, he still managed a genuine smile in parting to both spectators before heading off to a different kind of battle.

Nixon and Rösner both remained watching him for a moment that stretched on longer than they realised. Each cursed the Captain in their own ways, in their own minds, as it would have been unprofessional to speak ill of him to one another. They would have to settle on merely _thinking_ ill of him together instead. Not quite as satisfying, that was obvious, but it was still companionable at the very least. They were like-minded on the subject, for they both understood the advantages of Sobel's leadership of the company, and the disadvantages, too. There had once been a time when the good outweighed the bad, but it was rapidly becoming otherwise so.

God help the men of Easy when the jump did come, because Sobel surely wouldn't.

The silence soon gave way to conversation, both of them walking back towards HQ. Emilia finally handing over the files that had brought her there in the first place. Nixon scanned over them, thanking Emilia a few times, before tucking them under his arm and shaking his head.

"This is gonna be interesting."

She knew he wasn't talking about the files.

They didn't know it yet – not Emilia, Nixon, nor any of the 506th – but Nixon was a lot more accurate in his statement than he realised. Winters' Courts-martial would be both the beginning and end of an era, and the first raindrop in what would be a storm.

—

The passing days saw the Second Battalion staff in something that was somewhat akin to frenzy. Winters' situation was, to some, amusing; but none of those persons were in Battalion staff. For those who were, it only posed a nagging problem – one that they were expected to fix. Over the next week or two, most of their noses were deep in manuals, looking for a loophole to get out from under the embarrassment. None were as diligent in the search as Nixon, who undoubtedly felt more inclined to get his friend out from between the devil and the deep, blue sea that was army protocol.

Emilia had offered her hand in helping, but she wasn't as familiar with the American procedures as she was with the British, and she feared that she would only slow the process rather than speed it up. Still, Emilia made it her own protocol to question Nixon on their progress whenever possible, and it was amazing to the woman that he hadn't told her – in polite terms – to get lost.

It was twelve days before the Courts-martial was, at last, dismissed – Armistice Day, as it turned out – and finally, it seemed as though everyone could take a deep breath again. Emilia proposed to both Winters and Nixon that they celebrate the small victory, and Nixon agreed on the term that Dick have a glass of whiskey.

They were, both of them, denied.

* * *

_12 November 1943_

"I give up," Dick exclaimed, "Go ahead and shoot me."

He let the opened order fall on the desk, disappointed that the paper's fall did not properly convey his rage with the situation. It was unlikely that he'd be let off, though, for throwing the entire desk out the window. Perhaps, he had been a fool to believe the petty game with Sobel was finished, that the man would lighten up upon realising how ridiculous it was to report the most minor of infractions, but evidently Dick had been wrong. It had only been one day since Strayer dismissed the Courts-martial, and already he was being served with another order.

Company E, 506th PIR, 12 November '43  
_Subject: Failure to Inspect Latrine Orderly  
To: 1st Lt. R. D. Winters  
1\. You will reply by indorsement hereon your reason for failure to instruct Pvt. J. Melo in his duties as latrine orderly.  
_2\. You will further reply why he was permitted to be on duty at 1030 Oct. 30 in need of a shave.  
_Herbert M. Sobel, Capt., Commanding._

"Ah, come on, Dick," Nixon pushed the paper across the table, wanting to distance himself from the absurdity. He figured the mood wasn't right to once again point out the errors in Evans' spelling. "You can't let him keep doing this, can you? I've never known you to give up."

Lewis meant well, and Winters knew that, but the Lieutenant was in no mood to entertain such optimism. Unaffected by his friend's words and wanting nothing more than to punch Sobel square in the jaw, Dick picked up his pen and replied by endorsement:

_1\. Reason for failure to instruct Pvt. Melo in his duties as latrine orderly: No excuse.  
2\. Reason why he was permitted to be on duty at 1030 hr in need of shave: No excuse. _

_The next day…_

Elsewhere in the village, Emilia Rösner was enjoying a bout of solitude.

The day was much clearer and sunnier than those that came before it, but there was a bite in the air that remained all the same. The trees were moving restlessly, and leaves were picked up and swirled in the wind. She sat on a bench with a borrowed book, watching some children play in the grass, smiling as one jumped in a pile of fallen leaves. It faded. Would their father's return from war, or would their lives ultimately amount to nothing more than another tally in a never-ending game?

It was anyone's guess, for no answer was certain, but Emilia whispered a little prayer despite the odds and her lack of faith. It wasn't for her, but for those children – they didn't need to know loss yet. Did they not deserve to be innocent for at least awhile longer? To be so young during a war… well, she could understand what that was like. The Great War had just ended when she'd been born, but the moments of true peace in her youth had been few and far between, and others like her.

"Penny for your thoughts, Slim?"

Skip Muck had, in a flash, jumped over the back of the bench to sit beside Emilia. It had happened so quickly that the woman barely even had the time to register he was there, let alone answer his question. But, she recovered. Truthfully, Emilia was rather fond of Muck – for many reasons, but it could be argued that his resemblance to an important figure in her life had a major part in it.

"You have better things to do than listen to my thoughts, Sergeant," she sighed, closing her book and placing it by her side. "Shouldn't you be off shooting something, or maybe tormenting the natives?"

He pondered that for a moment. "I'm doing the second one, aren't I?"

"I'm not a native, but I suppose I walked into that one." She looked back towards the children, pointing lamely with her right hand. "I used to do the same thing when I was a child, with my brother… and my mother would get so angry with us, but I think she liked the excuse to bathe us after we came in all filthy," she smiled. "She'd always smile… anyway, I was just thinking of that."

The Sergeant seemed taken aback by the sudden insight to her private life, as she was notorious for giving vague answers to any questions that teetered on being of personal nature. There wasn't a soldier in the war who couldn't sympathise with nostalgic thoughts though, except maybe Sobel.

Muck reckoned he was only sentimental about peaches.

"Your parents live nearby?"

"No, they don't." She scratched her chin, "What _are _you up to? I thought E Company had drills this morning." He shook his head. "I must be mistaken, then. Colonel Sink suggested that I take a few days to rest; he thought I was overworking myself" - A ridiculous assumption, unless typing was to be considered strenuous - "How are the men, by the way? They must be pleased about Lieutenant Winters' Court Martial being dismissed." She certainly had been. It was strangely satisfying to watch how Sobel's face fell as Strayer declared it nonsense.

Muck's brows furrowed, and Emilia didn't miss the way he visibly stiffened. "You… er, you didn't hear about Winters?" When she shook her head, he continued: "Shit, Slim. Strayer transferred him out of Easy, it was made official this morning. He's in Battalion Mess now."

"_What_?"

—

The NCO barracks for Easy Company had always been a place where gossip thrived, and it was no different when it came to the subject of their superior officers. The rivalry between Winters and Sobel – unwanted on the former's part – had long been a favourite topic among the men (both in and out of E company), and then, as it reached it's boiling point, it was only natural that there be some excitement in the ranks. They had been pleased when the Courts-martial was dismissed, but the news of Winters' transfer had sent the majority of the men into an uproar.

Sergeants Harris and Ranney had called the non-commissioned men into a meeting – with the exception of Evans, and a few others. The general consensus among the men had always been that Winters was far better a leader than Sobel could ever be. He may have shaped them into the soldiers they were becoming, but that was just a formula. Winters had been the frame that kept them all together, and no man there could stomach the reality of facing their enemies without him.

Harris slammed his fist on the table, anger causing him to tremble. "What kind of god damned bullshit—…Winters scrambles eggs while we all make the big jump with fuckin' _Sobel_?"

Guarnere shook his head. "Not me."

Battalion Mess – that had to have been a slap in the fact to their lost Lieutenant. It was the job they gave to anyone who couldn't do much right; it was something ill fitting of the soldier Winters was, and the soldier he had the potential to be yet.

"So we're going through with this, right?" Chuck Grant asked, watching his comrades closely. They nodded their answers to him, each silently considering the choice they'd come to.

"All right, good. But, we all better be clear on the consequences."

Martin scoffed. "I don't care about the consequences, Lip,"

"John, we could all be lined up against a wall and shot," Lipton spoke seriously, eyeing each of the men for even the slightest hint of hesitation. "Now, I'm ready to face that. And every one of us had better be, too."

"I will not follow that man into combat." Guarnere replied, the cocksure demeanour he usually had absent in that moment. Bull agreed with his statement aloud, as did a few other men, and a wave of understanding washed over them all. The men's spirit seemed to bolster a little after that, giving them the courage to do what came next.

Lipton nodded solemnly, picking up his pencil. "All right. Then, let's do it." He spoke again as the rest of them wrote, repeating the words they all scribbled down, hearts heavy with mingled fear and grief. "I hereby… no longer… wish to serve… as a non-commissioned officer… in Easy company."

It was only natural that Emilia should enter at just that moment.

Her sole intention in going had been to check on the men, make sure that none had attempted to murder Sobel, and attempt to lift their spirits in whatever small way she could should it be necessary. A little banter, maybe some innocent flirting – it all went far when it came to disheartened soldier. "Playing nice, boys?" But, the looks on the men's faces – surprise? Shame? – It all caused her heart to fall, and she knew instantly that she'd just intruded on some private, _secret_ affair.

"What? …What is it?" Her eyes dropped down to the table, where most of the men had unconsciously put their hands over the slips of paper. Emilia managed to scan over the one that Talbert had written, and her heart dropped further to the ground. "Oh, god. You can't go through with this," she looked at all of them, desperately, but they averted her gaze. "This is mutiny!"

"All right, boys..." Lipton stood up, watching her with an emotion she couldn't quite name before turning back to his comrades. He was the company C.Q. that night, and in that, it was his responsibility to gather up the resignations and put them into Sobel's 'in' box. If anyone could talk them out of the decision, it would be him. "Good luck."

And with that, he walked past her.

"No," she sighed, watching as the rest followed suit. She had tried, in vain, to stop them even then. It was a strange feeling that overwhelmed her with the discovery, and she came to the conclusion that, despite her efforts for the contrary, she was very much attached to the characters of Easy Company. The thought of their deaths… of the consequences, well, they frightened her more than they should have. "Talbert… Grant, don't— Martin! _Please_! Whatever issues you may have with the man, you can't seriously be considering this—"

"With all due respect," started Bull. "It's a little easier for you to say considerin' you ain't the one jumpin' out a goddamn plane with him."

Emilia did not respond, but stretched out her arm to stop Bill as he moved to walk past her, eyes pleading. "Guarnere, you're not a complete idiot. Would you just think this for a moment? You could be marked traitors for this—"

"Sometimes the right thing to do ain't the smartest thing in the books, Slim."

"You could _die_!"

"We're _paratroopers_. We were dead the day we got our wings."

_Later that night…_

Ronald Speirs was not known as a very sociable man, nor did he ever partake in sessions of rumours and the like – he preferred silence to meaningless words, and facts to gossip. Despite it all, however, the situation regarding Captain Sobel and Lieutenant Winters was not lost on him, and if prompted, he'd have to admit taking up and interest in the show of events, begrudgingly, of course. He was familiar with Richard Winters, as he was with most in his Battalion, and he respected the man for his skill in leadership. It was a shame that Sobel's incompetence and lack of confidence in his own skills had lead to Winters' transfer, as he was undoubtedly the backbone of Easy Company. Something else Sobel must not have been pleased with.

E Company, the finest company in 2cd Battalion – maybe even the finest in the entirety of their regiment. Ron wasn't in the habit of being dishonest with himself, and in that he could not deny the slightest amount of envy at those within the ranks of Easy. They were a fine bunch of soldiers, as were the men in Dog and Fox Company, but the majority of men in those lacked the same conviction that had been beaten into Easy, the same dedication and discipline.

They were impressive, and he was rarely impressed.

"Goodnight, Lieutenant," His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of an intoxicated voice, and he turned to catch the sight of one of his men – PFC Art DiMazio. Speirs watched in silence as the man hobbled off toward the barracks, drunkenly humming a tune to himself that the other man couldn't name. He didn't reply. It was only when he saw DiMazio enter the building that Speirs began walking toward his own quarters, suddenly aware of how tired he was after the day's long, and especially strenuous, training schedule.

He'd only made it a few more steps when he saw _her, _standing, illuminated, beneath one of the dim lampposts on the road – the very same woman he'd scrutinised the month before. For a moment, Ron stilled. He considered turning back, or taking a longer route, but decided against it. He was nothing if not a head-on kind of man. The last, and only time, they had ever spoken had been an uncomfortable affair to say the least. Ron left that night with the distinct impression that he had embarrassed her, and while that hadn't been his intention, he couldn't exactly claim to be sorry for it. Not the most welcoming way to treat a neighbour, perhaps, but what was done was done.

Emilia turned suddenly at the sound of his approach.

"Lieutenant Speirs," her greeting was stiff, but not unfriendly. He returned it, and she stood awkwardly for a moment before continuing: "You wouldn't happen have a lighter, would you?" Odd that she should carry so fine a cigarette case with her yet have nothing to light them with. Or perhaps, it was just an attempt at conversation. In either case, Ron reached into his pocket to fetch his lighter, obliging the woman.

"You don't say much, Lieutenant," she spoke again, bringing the lighter to her lips. She didn't pose it as a question, and for a second Ron thought of saying nothing in turn, for nothing more than to see her reaction.

He threw his own cigarette aside.

"Not unless there's something that needs saying,"

"Not unless there's someone who needs criticising, you mean?" She blew out the smoke in a steady flow, and handed him back the lighter with a ghost of a smirk on her face. "It's all right, I was rude. I had been meaning to apologise, actually." She spoke again with a sigh, "I don't want to be perceived as rude."

He watched her with amused suspicion, the smoke clearing between the two of them. "I didn't peg you as one who cared much about other people's opinions, ma'am."

Emilia laughed a little bitterly, and looked at him with a tired expression, as though she were exhausted of explaining it so many times – which, truthfully, she was. "As much as I hate to admit it, Lieutenant, I am a woman surrounded by men, men, and more men with a job that was made for men. I don't exactly have the luxury of not caring about people's opinion of me."

He considered her words for a short amount of time. "That's fair," a pause. "Does that mean you care about what Captain Sobel thinks of you?"

She scoffed, and gave him a smile. "He's the exception."

"I expect you have a lot to write about in those reports of yours with him around,"

"No…" She let the fag – shrunken by then – fall to the cobbled street, and put it out beneath her toes. Sobel wasn't anything worth speaking in depth of as of then, but with nearly all his non-coms resigning? That would definitely stir a bit of concern back in London, if not in Aldbourne. "But, I expect I will soon." Her eyes focused on the window of her room, where sat her loyal typewriter, and then back on Speirs' intense gaze. "Goodnight, Lieutenant."

"Goodnight," he replied, watching as she walked through the front door.

A distraction.

* * *

_Next chapter coming very, very soon! _


	4. Chapter III

"_The end of a melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either. A parable."_ — Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

_Aldbourne, England_  
15 November 1943

"Well, boys… all things considered, I think that could'a gone a lot worse."

"Harris was transferred out of the Regiment, Gonorrhoea. I mean Ranney was busted to private, for Christ's sake!" Floyd Talbert sighed in frustration, letting his spoon drop with a satisfying 'clank' to the bottom of the tin. He didn't have much of an appetite after their meeting with Sink – none of the men did.

The men were all suffering various levels of guilt after their confrontation with Colonel Sink, the realisation of their actions settling in nicely beside that of the consequences they'd narrowly avoided. Guarnere only shrugged.

"Hey, it's like I said: could'a been worse." _Could've been shot dead._

Facing possible execution had seemed much nobler before they'd heard their Colonel utter the words: "_I ought to have you all shot_." There wasn't an NCO present that didn't hold their breath in that moment. Though, to most of the men, the threat had not been as wounding as being told they were a disgrace to their company. Their deaths still seemed so far away – even then, on the brink of invasion. But, the men were all so young; in their naivety perhaps they believed they were invincible. That proud armour of theirs would be shattered in time, and that day would leave the first chink in the steel.

All that remained to be seen was whether or not it would be worth it.

—

Emilia had always been a rather insightful kind of person. During her childhood, she would find herself more interested in watching her surroundings rather than taking a more active part in them, and consequently she'd become very perceptive to the environments she found herself in. Whether it was that particular skill that told her something was amiss, or how the entirety of Battalion Staff silenced upon her entrance to the floor, was anyone's guess. One of the secretaries – a young mouse of a girl – scurried toward Emilia as she stood in the invisible spotlight, muttering quickly about Colonel Sink wishing to see her in his office immediately.

That certainly explained it.

The floor dissolved back into its usual chatter once Emilia started toward the office, but she didn't miss how everyone's eyes darted towards her as passed– a walk to the scaffold, it felt like. His office was warm, as always, and the curtains were drawn shut despite the hour. The sun was filtering through the pretty lace confections, decorating the room in a pale and shallow light that carved intricate shadows on the wall. Mornings like that often left her feeling as though she were in a dream, but Emilia knew that it couldn't be. It was all far too pleasant to be any dream of hers.

"I take it you're aware of the present situation with Easy Company." Colonel Sink spoke, pouring himself a glass of liqueur. He looked tired, with shadows beneath his eyes that were not caused by the room's low lighting.

"Yes, sir, I am aware," she said. "As I explained in the report I submitted last night, I did try to talk them out of making that decision, as did Lieutenant Winters when he was made aware, but they were very… _adamant_ in their belief that they were doing the right thing, and wouldn't see reason. It's unfortunate that it had to come to this, Sergeant Harris was a good soldier."

"Mm. And, you were made aware of this when exactly?"

Emilia looked at her hands, folded in her lap. "Th—um…The 12th of November, sir."

"The _twelfth_? Three days ago?" The Colonel sounded far from pleased, and Emilia flinched at the sharp tone of his voice. "You're telling me that you've known since they made the goddamn plan, and you didn't think it was necessary to speak to me about this embarrassment?"

"I wasn't—strictly speaking—on duty at the time, sir. And more than that, I didn't think it was my place to reveal their plans, as Winters had yet to speak to them and I believed that he would be able to succeed where I had failed. Sir." Emilia spoke quickly and carefully, not wishing to ignite any further anger in the man. She had, admittedly and purposefully, kept the knowledge from him for the simple fact that the Colonel would find out on his own in due time. And, were she being wholly honest, Emilia didn't want to be the bearer of that particular kind of bad news.

Sink regarded her with that unwavering, piercing gaze of his, making the woman feel as though he were trying to mentally dissect her right then and there. She didn't know how the men could stand it.

"I see," he folded his hands on the desk, eyes remaining glued to her. Emilia wanted very much to look away, but forced herself not to. "I take it you informed your superiors about all of this in your last co-ordination with MI6."

"Yes, sir." He grumbled inwardly, and Emilia quickly spoke again before it turned outward. "Sir, th-they are obviously concerned with the development, but… well, they suggested to me a course of action, should you be interested in taking one. You're familiar with the Jump School in Chilton Foliat that's nearly completed, I know, and—well, before I get ahead of myself, they believe this would work best for all parties involved, and I have to say that I agree on the matter. In fact, I had typed up a more formal proposal that I was going to submit today."

"Is that so?" Sink leaned back in the seat, resting his fingers against each other as he studied the woman. He wasn't so blind as to not see the core of the problem in Easy Company – he was a military man, through and through, and he knew the strengths and weaknesses in every man that served under him, Sobel included. But, the best solution to the problem at hand wasn't the easiest and the easiest solution was not the best. At that point, he was open to suggestions. "I'm listening."

—

"They've been in there awhile," Lewis Nixon spoke, blowing out smoke as he sat behind his typewriter. He was watching the door to Sink's office intently, thinking if he squinted hard enough he'd be able to see what was going on behind the oak doors. The S-3 had taken a personal interest in the drama surrounding Easy Company, for reasons that went without saying, and still held the slightest bit of hope that something would be worked out that would work in favour with his friend, Dick.

"Well, he's not yelling anymore," said Harry Welsh, sitting on the edge of Nixon's desk as he lit his own cigarette. "I'd take that as a good sign."

Just as he finished speaking, the doors swung open and Emilia exited the room. Nixon had to give it to her, if she was irked at all by everyone's eyes on her, she gave no sign of it. He reckoned that it must be difficult for a woman to be in the position she was in, surrounded by a bunch of men who couldn't look at her without imagining an apron where her uniform was.

Harry scoffed lightly, flicking some ash off his fingernail. "Like a short man,"

Nixon gave him a look. "What?"

"They're supposed to look like short men in those uniforms," he explained further, shaking his head. "Why doesn't she? Looks like a damn pin-up for God's sake, on those posters plastered all over London. Huh… I wonder what Kitty would look—…" Nixon coughed abruptly to cut him off, straightening up in his seat as Emilia came towards them.

"Hello, boys." Emilia greeted the two with a smile that looked only slightly forced.

"Hah. Pretty chipper for just being put through the ringer there, eh, Rösner?" Harry said, waggling his eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes, "You make it sound worse than it was."

"I don't have to make it sound like anything considering the whole building heard him going off—"

"_In any case_," Emilia pressed on, fixing Harry with a glare that elicited an amusing giggle from the man. "It's all resolved now – or it will be soon, with any luck. Nixon, are you familiar with Lieutenant Meehan from Baker Company, by any chance?"

Nixon leaned back in his chair, twirling a pencil between his fingers. "I'm vaguely familiar with him," his eyes narrowed on the woman, noticing the slight shift in her expression – she looked scheming, almost. "Why…?"

"Would you mind introducing us?"

—

"I can only speculate, sir…" Captain Sobel appeared to be nervous, fidgeting in his seat and staring wide-eyed at both Strayer and Sink, reminiscent of a child walking on eggshells. Emilia found it difficult to watch. "Most of the men would never do this. But, I believe that just a few of the sergeants may have felt their loyalty lay more to the platoon than the company as a whole, Sir."

"And these few sergeants convinced all the other NCO's in your company to turn in their stripes?" Sink looked sceptical, and Sobel looked panicked.

"As staff sergeants, they have a great amount of influence, Sir. But, as I say, the rest are good men. I know them. I—I can work with them."

Colonel Sink was leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, regarding the man carefully as both Strayer and Emilia silently watched. The meeting with Sobel had been called after Emilia's interview with Meehan, all done rather quickly and efficiently, with all that remained being Sobel's ultimate reassignment. Sink had been hesitant at first with the prospect, though he'd admitted to Emilia that he had been considering it himself after the actions of Easy's non-coms.

The fire crackled in the uneasy silence, and Sink straightened up his stance before speaking again: "This drama with Winters has been an unpleasant distraction, Herbert. However, your command of Easy Company has been exemplary."

Sobel was caught off guard. "Th—Thank you, sir."

"In fact, aside from the actions of a few of your non-coms, I truly believe that you've fielded one of the finest companies of soldiers that I've ever seen. And, I'm not the only one who thinks that, as a matter of fact, you've caught the attention of quite a few officials." The colonel poured himself a glass of whiskey, and another for Sobel.

He'd set up the stage very well, leaving Sobel looking quite pleased with himself at the praises, all to soften the upcoming blow. After handing Sobel the glass, Sink turned toward Emilia and motioned for her to speak. She hadn't been expecting that, though it made sense that Sink would want to pass off the blow to her – Sobel would think it was her idea rather than Sink's – which, technically speaking, it was – and any resentment would be dealt to her rather than the Colonel.

A clever move, indeed.

She cleared her throat. "Captain Sobel, division has established a parachute jump training school in the village of Chilton Foliat. Their main objective is training doctors, chaplains, and other vital non-infantry types to qualify as paratroopers for the invasion. The only issue is that they've been unable to secure anyone to lead the programme thus far, but we believe that there are few others than yourself that would be qualified to command such a school."

Sobel blinked at Emilia, and looked to Sink. "Sir?"

"I'm reassigning you to Chilton Foliat."

"I'm losing Easy Company?"

"The war effort needs you elsewhere, Captain," Strayer said, "We're putting a lot of faith in you to carry this assignment out."

Sobel ignored him, pleading eyes remaining on the Colonel alone. He looked as though he were just betrayed by his only ally in the world. Maybe he had been.

"Permission to speak, Sir?"

"Granted."

"Is—…Who will be replacing me?"

Emilia assumed he wanted to ask whether or no it would be Winters that took his place, and what pity she'd felt momentarily for the man fled her conscious in favour of irritation. Was it impossible for the man to let go of that rivalry for even one day? She assumed not. Such prideful creatures, these men were.

"Lieutenant Meehan from Baker Company is the senior officer, and Sweeney from Able will be coming in as XO. You can trust Easy in his hands; he's a damn good man. You can trust Agent Rösner's judgement, too. She already discussed the situation with him, and he's more than ready to take on the company." He gripped Sobel on the shoulder, in a last effort for consolation. "Good luck in Chilton Foliat, son. Don't let us down, now."

Sobel swallowed, failing to conceal his disappointment. "No, sir."

—

Ronald Speirs was walking up the steps of Company CP, a bundle of reports tucked between his arm and torso. Delivering paperwork was a job much more suitable for runners and orderly's, but the hour was late and he wasn't entirely opposed to the walk. The day hadn't been strenuous in training, as poor weather had interfered with prior plans, and Ron found himself restless and desperate for a bit of exercise – even if it was just a simple walk. A door being opened caught his attention just as he delivered the reports to Lewis Nixon, and they both turned to see the nearing figure of Captain Sobel, leaving Colonel Sink's office.

It wasn't exactly an oddity, seeing the Captain there, but there was something in his expression that Ron found strikingly different. The authority he carried himself with was missing from his stature, and while Sobel was nowhere near a little man, he somehow resembled a small private in the way that he walked – unsure, upset, and lost.

Ron saluted when Sobel neared him, though Nixon did not, but the gesture was not returned. He turned his head to watch the other man leave, utterly bothered at the lack of tact, but ultimately indifferent. Sobel wasn't his commanding officer, therefore the man's piss-poor attitude was not his problem.

"Lieutenant Speirs," a soft voice came from behind, and Ron turned to see Emilia standing beside him. "Nixon. Did Captain Sobel pass through this way?" That was odd. Had she meant to follow him?

Lewis nodded, "I take it there was a reason for the grimace on his face."

Emilia shifted uncomfortably, looking almost guilty. "There was…" _They'll find out soon, anyway. _"It's been decided that Captain Sobel will be reassigned to Chilton Foliat. Lieutenant Meehan will be taking his place,"

Nixon let out a low whistle. "Is he going to tell the men?"

"I doubt it."

"You must be pleased, ma'am," Speirs said.

Something in his tone bothered her. "What do you mean? I'm not pleased." She knew what he meant, and was surprised that she _didn't _feel at least a little relief at the situation. In truth, Emilia had gone into the meeting expecting to feel some bout of triumph at seeing Sobel lose Easy Company, but left the situation with an unwelcome amount of understanding. "It was necessary."

"Necessary, ma'am? You make it sound like you had a personal part in it."

"I might have. I have a personal part in a lot of things that go on within this battalion, not that it's any business of yours." Neither Nixon nor Speirs replied, and Emilia sighed. "I'm sure you'd like to inform Winters that he's back with 1st platoon, Lieutenant Nixon."

He perked up. "Of course,"

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

—

"Alright, now be honest with me. Am I dreaming? I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"Hell, Luz," Bull chuckled. "If you're dreaming about all of us in your down time, then I hate to break it to you, but you're dreams are fuckin' shit and I hope you wake up soon." Shifty snorted, bringing a hand up to muffle his reaction to the man's statement.

"Sobel gone…" Toye said carefully, wrapping his head around the statement.

"Welsh mentioned somethin' about Miss Rösner havin' somethin' to do with it," Shifty said, falling back on his cot with a dreamy kind of sigh.

"If that's true, I'm askin' her to marry me." Luz muttered with a cigarette between his lips. "Honeymoon in Berlin, eh, boys? You're all invited."

Webster spoke next, folding the letter he'd been writing into his pocket. "The Sobel Era has come to an end… Luz is right. It's almost too good to be true,"

"Almost?" Liebgott repeated, "How's it _almost_ too good?"

"Yeah…" Malarkey frowned, "Yeah. I mean we got Meehan commanding, Winters back with first platoon, Sobel gone, beautiful women on our side, Evans no longer smug, Sobel gone... did I mention that one already?"

Guarnere shrugged. "Eh, I'll say it one more time for good measure: _Sobel_ _gone_."

Malarkey continued: "How does it get any better than this? It's already too good to be true in my books,"

"Last I checked we're still dropping on Europe – Sobel or no Sobel. Can't have it all,"

There was a collective groan at his words.

Muck sighed, "Always gotta rain on the parade, Web."

_A few days later…_

The passing days saw Sobel's permanent exit from Aldbourne, and a shift in the atmosphere surrounding Easy Company. The men were undoubtedly pleased with the arrangement, as were the higher-ups, already seeing the benefits of having new leadership in the men's performance. Emilia, herself, was oddly conflicted about it all, however – ironic, considering the part she had played in the removal. But, it was hard to dislike someone once one understood them better, and in the time following Sobel's exit, she'd started to understand the man more. Sure, he'd been rude to her, but most men were. Captain Sobel wasn't tasked with winning any popularity contests within the 506th, nor was it necessary for him to be anything more than a fixed point for his men. His job had been simple: to chisel soldiers out of mere men, and he'd succeeded in that.

He'd had a poor attitude, and he wasn't fair with his leadership or exemplary in the field, but it went without saying that Easy Company meant a lot to him. And it was no longer his, which was faulted to no one other than himself, truly, but Emilia still felt guilt over the matter. It was that guilt mingled with other thoughts and memories that drew her to the empty shooting range that evening, figuring a bit of practise would put her mind off things for at least a little while.

"Where did you learn how to shoot?"

The voice snapped her out of her reverie.

"What?"

Ron's lips twitched as he almost allowed a smile, though instead settled for a stern frown. "Where did you learn how to shoot a gun? I thought girls like you were brought up with sewing machines, ma'am, not target practise."

"Oh," Emilia spoke quietly, growing a little nervous suddenly. How could she put it simply without revealing too much? "When I was younger I—well, my father taught my brother, and my brother taught me."

"Ah,"

She hadn't even fired a shot yet, and didn't feel inclined to do so while the lieutenant lurked. But Emilia lowered the pistol after a moment, suddenly registering the accompanying comment. "Wait—_sewing_ machine…? I'm sorry, do you think learning how to sew is some sort of rite of passage for a woman?" The lieutenant didn't reply, and Emilia had the distinct impression that he'd said it merely to get a rise out of her. _Bastard. _It had worked._  
_

He scoffed quietly at her words, "You're holding it wrong,"

"Sorry?"

"The pistol," he clarified, "You're holding it wrong. I would have assumed you'd know something so basic, ma'am," Lieutenant Speirs was, without a doubt, trying to wind her up. For his part, and despite the animosity it likely caused, Ron found that he somewhat enjoyed taunting the woman, goading a reaction from her usually collected self.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be, Lieutenant?"

"No, ma'am," Ron loaded his rifle, "Have you ever fired one before?"

She exhaled sharply, finding the sound of his voice reminiscent to that of fingernails on chalkboard. Emilia didn't want to think about the last times she'd fired a gun, she just wanted to fire one in peace – a strange desire, oxymoronic. "Of course I have."

He took aim of the targets in the distance – a few empty bottles – and fired his rifle once, then twice, and a third time before lowering it. He missed once, but shattered the other two. "You should be holding it firmly, and your thumbs shouldn't be cr—"

"_Boże_," Emilia cut him off with exasperation, unwilling to listen to another self-righteous word. Turning to face the bottle that he'd missed, she lifted her right hand and, quite quickly and on her first attempt, shot it right off it's place on the log. She was much more pleased with herself than she ought to have been, and looked back at the Lieutenant with a satisfied smirk on her face.

She wasn't expecting the smirk to be returned.

A small shudder raced down her spine.

"Good shot," he said, nodding toward her in parting.

He began to walk away toward the main road, leaving her simmering and confused behind him. It was curious to her, how she always felt some odd and lasting emotion after their interactions, and odder still that she didn't seem to know a thing about him outside his rank and name. "Lieutenant Speirs?" She called out impulsively, not even sure what it was she wanted to say to him. He gave no reply, but turned back toward her. Emilia grasped for words for a moment, but settled with a simple question:

"Where did _you_ learn how to shoot a gun?"

Ron smiled.

* * *

Short chapter! I know I said this would be posted soon, so I'm very sorry that it wasn't as soon as I would have liked! I had some distractions, but the next chapter has already been started and hopefully I can have it up by the end of the week. This chapter was originally gonna be a bit longer, but I figured that not everyone is as fond as long chapters as I am! One more thing: I'd just like you all to try and think of Sobel as less of a villain and more of a complex man, which he was (I hope I've made it clear in my writing that he's not a villain). I've seen a lot of works and posts that paint him out to be quite the evil person, and he wasn't. He may not have been the best man, but he certainly wasn't the worst, so please think him with respect! He helped make Easy Company what we all have come to admire.

Please, please, please read and review! Honestly, reviews motivate me to write a lot quicker than none do :)xx


	5. Chapter IV

"_For last year's words belong to last year's language  
And next year's words await another voice.  
And to make an end is to make a beginning._"

— T.S. Eliot

* * *

The Blue Boar, Aldbourne  
_31 December 1943_

The cigarette smoke twirled magnificently in the cold, brisk air of that penultimate night. December – the month of frosted windows, silent nights, and deep, sad carols sung for missing brothers and absents fathers – was coming to an end.

The final month of '43 had come and gone rapidly for the soldiers in Aldbourne, each of which spending each day in a state of longing for home. Such was a longing that remained in their hearts no matter the season, but the holidays that winter offered had a way of accentuating their desire for homely familiarity. The paratroopers were not the only ones in Aldbourne who suffered from homesickness, though. 1943 was coming to a close, and so would begin another year of the same promises that had been made before – _the war will be over by Christmas_! Nearly four years of those very words, and for some strange reason people continued to believe them still. Oh, but it was unseemly to end a year bitter, and worse still to start one that way. So, Emilia tucked away the thoughts with her cigarette case in her pocket, and started the short walk in the cold to The Blue Boar, where the music was loud and laughing could be heard for miles – or so it seemed.

Elsewhere, in the Boar, both non-coms and officers alike were enjoying the rest of 1943 while they could, as were plenty of pretty, eligible ladies from the surrounding village. The men of the 506th would have no shortage of women to kiss once the clock hit midnight, that much was certain.

"Well," Buck Compton spoke with a sigh, sitting down with a resigned look on his face. "Today marks the first day that I've ever been chewed out for being too friendly with my own men. Can you believe that?" He scoffed. "Too friendly…"

Additions had been made to the companies in the 506th, all done to ensure that each platoon would have more than one lieutenant in expectation for casualties in the field. Lynn Compton was one of those newcomers, having arrived earlier in the month to join the ranks of Easy Company. He had wasted no time in befriending the men of his company, both non-coms and enlisted alike, though he'd somehow garnered the dislike of Lieutenant Nixon who fancied him a jock.

"Hey," Guarnere started, "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it, Buck. It's 'cause you was gambling. Quakers don't like gambling."

"What is it with you and calling Winters a _Quaker _all the time, huh?" Joe Toye said, sitting down beside Bill with a full pint. "I'll bet you a thousand bucks he ain't even a Quaker. He's probably… oh, I don't know, a Lutheran or something."

"I know a Quaker when I see one."

"What does that even mean?" Webster asked, having joined them by then.

"Joseph Toye, I know for a fact that that's bullshit," Buck said, taking off his cap with a chuckle. "If you had a thousand bucks I'd have won it off 'a you by now."

Joe couldn't argue with that point.

Emilia arrived at that moment, pushing open the heavy door with some difficulty – the wind had picked up at the moment of her arrival, pushing as she pulled, and the agent very nearly took it as a sign to turn around and go home. _Nearly_. Constance – the woman she was billeted with – wouldn't have allowed her to go back home, however, as the older woman believed Emilia was far too keen on her work— which she was. "_You're not married yet_," she had said, urging her houseguest through the door. "_And New Years only comes once a year. Have your fun while you can_."

Buck was the first to notice her entrance, and he rose both his pint and his voice to garner her attention. He'd managed to wheedle himself into Emilia's good graces – not that doing so was a particularly difficult thing to do. For a woman who'd gone into the assignment hoping not to make any lasting connection with the soldiers, she had, catastrophically, failed.

"Well, well. I didn't think you was gonna show, Sli—" Guarnere feigned a cough, shifting uncomfortably as Colonel Strayer walked past them. Emilia bit back a laugh at his expense, which the trooper was thankful for. "… Ma'am."

"No?" Emilia let her coat slide off her shoulders, folding it on the back of the chair Toye pulled out for her. "Why not?" It took them a moment to reply, each taking a second or two to appreciate the appearance of their newest companion.

"You've been with us—what? Over two months now, and I don't think I've seen you down here with your hair down even _once_."

"That's not true. I was here for that one party back in… October, I think?"

"Oh, my apologies everyone. Slim's been here _once_!"

Buck put out his cigarette in the ashtray, chuckling. "Well I don't know about any of that, seeing as you've been here longer than I have. But, what I will say is that I don't recall seeing you at the Christmas party last week either."

"Or Thanksgiving," Webster pointed out.

"What gives, ma'am?" Toye said, "You too good for us Five-Oh-Sink's?"

"Not everyone celebrates. And, believe it or not, my life doesn't revolve around drinking with you. Oh, don't look so wounded, Guarnere, it's not as though you're exactly lacking for attention with the ladies from what I can tell."

"Jealous, doll?" Guarnere winked, "You're still number one in our books."

Emilia rolled her eyes, and the five of them dissolved into meaningless chatter and laughter that, in all actuality, wasn't very meaningless at all. She had arrived at the pub at half past seven; three hours later, their table was covered with empty glasses, and four other Easy boys had joined in by then, their lady friends included. The conversation topics had meandered from witty insults being traded back and forth to favourite films, girls left behind, to the economic situation in New York, then back to trading insults, and finally on the men all exchanging childhood stories that they'd probably heard before. By the time '44 rolled around, the group would surely solve issues of world peace. Emilia didn't say much, preferring to listen and give offhand comments, but it was still a happy time; and such times were few and far between in war.

Ron was sitting at one of the officer's table on the other side of the room, idly sloshing about the whiskey in his glass while his eyes remained fixed on the figure across the room. His fellow D-company officers were all speaking of one thing or another, coming and going from the table to get more drinks or find a girl to dance with. Lieutenant Speirs, on the other hand, was satisfied with just the one drink he had, as well as the view from his seat. He'd only arrived to the celebration about an hour prior to that moment, thinking it a better alternative to spending New Years alone as was originally planned. But, it was good for the men to see their platoon leader in such settings; it reminded them that there was still a human being beneath the orders and protocol, that he was still one of them.

They were all in the same boat – or plane.

He only wanted to stay for an hour or so, anyway, opting out before things got particularly wild as they so often did. That was before he'd seen Emilia present, though. Ron wasn't entirely sure as to why he was unwilling to leave upon seeing her there, and the fact frustrated him regardless of its origin.

Emilia hadn't come dressed too formerly, and yet the dress she'd chosen still had a way of accentuating her figure in all the right ways. It was a floral dress, falling just below her knees, with a deep neckline that was trimmed in ivory lace. A more casual dress, truly, but dressed up for the occasion with elegant, dark waves and red lips. She looked a dream, and he was loth to admit it.

"Hello handsome," a voice pulled his eyes away from the table across the room, just as Emilia's had lingered towards him. A strikingly beautiful woman stood before him, blonde curls falling to her shoulders and her slim frame adorned with a blue, silk dress; the very image of Ginger Rogers. "Care to dance at all?"

Ron smiled politely, and considered the offer, but shook his head. He preferred being the one that asked, and he wasn't in the mood to dance regardless. The woman merely shrugged, and moved on to PFC DiMarzio, who was more than willing to acquiesce to her request. Across the room, cheers could be heard, and his attention focused on them.

"C'mon, boys!" Muck spoke gleefully, sliding in to sit beside Emilia with his trademark grin. "Let's have Slim send us off to the New Year with a toast, eh? Something fancy that you Brits use."

"Fancy? No, no, we still gotta be able to understand it," Perconte countered, looking very concerned with his arm hanging around the neck of a pretty redhead. "I'm not wantin' to send off the year to Shakespeare or some shit."

"Hear that, Rösner?" Luz broke in, lipstick on his cheek. "You gotta dumb it down for Perconte, here."

The men all laughed at the affronted look on Perconte's face, and Buck ruffled his already-ruffled hair. Lipton pushed his way through the crowd, putting down a tray of shots he'd acquired from the bar, and everyone that could reach the table moved in fast to get one of the tiny glasses — Emilia included.

"Alright, alright. No pressure," Emilia cleared her throat, raising the glass. What was an appropriate toast? Nothing seemed very fitting, as she considered the options in those short seconds, to send a group of men off into a year that they may not even survive. 'To victory' was misleading, and 'Currahee' too cliché and meaningless coming from her. She hadn't been present for their Currahee days, and found herself actually feeling a bit sorry for the fact. After a moment, she came to a decision.

"Dum Vivimus Vivamus."

The group fell silent, with Bill breaking it: "So much for dumbin' it down."

"Latin," said Webster. "It's Latin. '_Let us live while we live_.'"

There was a second silence, less contemplative than the first but more understanding. Each person that surrounded the table had a sad sort of smile adorning their features, wondering what beginning this end would bring about. New Years were just as much ends as they were beginnings, after all, but each step they took away from their past only brought them closer to their inescapable fates. They were thoughts worthy of washing down with alcohol, to say the very least.

Buck was the first to raise his glass after that, repeating the sentiment Emilia had spoken. "I can drink to that," he downed the shot, firmly setting it back atop the table with a fierce sort of grin. "Let us live while we live!"

The rest of the men followed suit, fading back again into their celebration and prior thoughts, but Emilia did not. Instead she stared into the little glass in her hand as though it were poison, letting the realisation sink in that the 31st of December, 1943, was the third New Year's she'd spent without her family. Had it really gone by so quickly? No. No, looking back it wasn't quick at all, but still unexpected. She stood up then, slightly off balance, and swiftly excused herself on the pretense that she was going outside to have a cigarette.

Her company thought nothing of it, but she was followed.

"Hello, Lieutenant Speirs." Emilia said simply. She was sat on the curb outside of the tavern, her cigarette case sitting neatly on her lap and ankles crossed in front of her. The last night of the year was clear and bright, the moon hanging as just a tiny crescent. Ron thought it looked like a sliver of something else; broken. He motioned beside her.

"Mind if I join you, ma'am?"

"Not at all," a sigh. "I expected that you'd be dancing with that pretty blonde, though."

Ron sat down on the curb. "You saw that, did you?"

"I'm a spy, haven't you heard? I see everything, hear everything—"

"Write everything down in your little reports." He finished.

"Of course."

"Of course," he pulled out a cigarette, thanking her under his breath when she held out her lighter for him to take. He spoke again once he'd sucked in the tobacco, reaping the relief it sent through his body. "I've never been very big on dancing."

"Never learned something so basic?"

"Funny. My mother made me take lessons when I was a kid," he explained with a chuckle. "I hated it, didn't want to take 'em, but she made me do it anyway. Still haven't warmed to it."

"Well, dancing is only enjoyable when you have someone to enjoy it with. I'm sure you'll be fond of it when you find a decent partner. Otherwise it's just shuffling about awkwardly, isn't it?"

"Is that why I didn't see you dancing in there either?" Ron asked, leaning his back against the wooden post. Emilia looked over at him, and he added: "You're not the only one who sees everything."

"Fair enough. No, I just get tired of being asked with the same lines."

"Huh…" Ron exhaled, and Emilia grinned over at him.

"Is that what happened with your girl in there, did she promise to whisk you off the dance floor? Did she lead it all off with a, uh—" Emilia tilted her chin down, trying to deepen her voice: "—_Hello gorgeous._"

He was being teased. "Well, she was a _she_, so I don't think it would have been quite as deep. Didn't call me gorgeous, either."

Emilia shrugged and looked back at her shot glass, still full to the brim. There was something sad in her smile, a sadness that cut deeper than the homesickness they all felt that night, and he'd noticed it the first time he'd seen her in there. Smiles and jests, despite her best efforts, were no cover for what grief she was trying to mask. So, despite his own better judgment, Ron decided that he would like to try and remedy that.

"Actually, it was more…" He hesitated a moment, looking behind them both to make sure they were alone. He was going to regret this. Clearing his throat, he did his best impression of a… _higher_-toned voice that he could: "_Hello_ _handsome_."

It was an uncomfortable silence that followed for Ronald Speirs, but thankfully it was broken after a second or two by her sudden laughter. "Was that the best you could do, Lieutenant?"

"You're one to talk," he countered, grinning. "Your impression was terrible."

"_Hello handsome_… wow. That sounded a bit southern actually. Just like in Gone With the Wind. What is it she said? _It sure is a happy day_!"

She did her best to mimic the accent from across the pond, but failed even worse than Ron had. Her laughing led to a drunken hiccup, which in turn made him laugh as well. Emilia was the first of them to sober up, her expression fading into a gentle kind sort of thoughtfulness while she regarded the man sitting beside her.

"Something on my face, ma'am?"

"Hm? No, I—sorry. I never heard you laugh before."

Ron considered that. "Not much to laugh about."

"That's not true," she countered. "You can still laugh. A year from now? Maybe not, probably not. But now—especially now—you can laugh."

"A year from now…" Ron looked up at the stars, trying to imagine how changed the world would be in such a space of time. Perhaps the war would be over by then, and he'd be back in the States. Or, more likely, he would be blown to bits somewhere over the English Channel, or rotting beneath an unmarked grave. "A year from now half of the men in that tavern are going to be dead. Maybe more. Maybe even all of us. You can pretend otherwise, ma'am, you can _hope_ they'll all make it and laugh like all of them are, but it won't change a damn thing. These happy memories, hopeful moments, they won't amount to anything in the end. We'll still die alone, shit-scared, and far away from home," He took a deep breath. "That's war."

Emilia was silent as he spoke, but affected nonetheless, for she hadn't even realised the tears that gathered in her eyes until her blinking made them fall. She stood, throwing back the glass she'd been toying with, and wiping her eyes before he could see her. It hadn't been the reminder of death, as death seemed to hover over her every thought, but it was the idea of hopelessness that cut her deep. Hope was the only thing she dared to hold onto after all those years, and to hear to someone cast it off as pointless in such times of peril made her wonder if it was even worth it. It was worth it, though; it had to be.

She had every intention of leaving without saying a thing to the man, but the alcohol swayed what wise decisions should have been made in favour of poorer ones, as it so often did. "You're wrong. You talk about hope like it has no place in war—"

"It doesn't," he argued, standing too with a pointed look on his face. "It's nothing in war; a weakness. Can't you see that?"

"I won't see that. I _can't_ see that! It's the only thing that so many people have left by now, my—" She broke off with a sharp exhale, looking at the man incredulously. Had they really been conversing so easily just moments before? Emilia was fairly certain she knew no one quite as infuriating at the Lieutenant, nor would she ever meet a man that was more so. "_How_ can you say it's nothing? Hope is _everything_, Lieutenant."

She didn't notice the silver, polished case she'd left there on the pavement.

—

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…_

Emilia fell onto the iron-wrought bed with a sigh; burying her face in the blankets that smelled nothing like the home she was yearning for. The year was nearly over – mere minutes away from conclusion – and she was predictably spending it just as she had for that past few years: alone. Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to the men back at the pub; she wondered how many of them would live to see the end of 1944, and what they would all come to see in the time that was then laid out before them. She _wanted _to believe that they would all make it through unscathed, that everything would turn out for the best as so many others did, but Ron was right – partially – it was war. Emilia's fists clenched around the fabric of her comforter, and she flipped to lay on her back with an aggravated moan. But why should she not hope? Why should she be made a fool for looking for a bit of light in the vast darkness? There was no point in living in a world without hope, she came to realise over the past few years, and she'd be damned before she let some G.I. upset her into thinking otherwise.

She sat up on the bed and glanced at the clock, 11:57, before reaching below the bed to grab a small box no bigger than a book. Gingerly, the young woman emptied it of its belongings, spreading out the pictures, trinkets, and letters on the bed, her dark eyes drinking in each item as though they were desperate for water. This was how she'd ended 1941, 1942, and now 1943. She couldn't be with her family physically, but at least there was this. If only it was enough.

As the clock stroke midnight, two things happened. The first was that a sudden, thunderous noise could be heard coming from outside – fireworks being let off into the night, echoes of others coming from neighbouring villages, too; it was no longer 1943. The second was that Emilia froze, for among her trinkets and tangible memories there was a piece missing – the cigarette case.

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne…_

Ron was sitting in his seat at the Boar when the New Year came, and there was the smallest hint of a smile on his face as the men around him celebrated with vicious laughter and gaiety. He would have preferred to be back in bed by then, but it was bad luck to start off a new year on one's own. So, he remained, despite the irksome feeling of guilt that plagued him. The cause was on the table beside him, where rested the silver little case Emilia had left behind. The Lieutenant eyed it with a fair amount curiosity. There was an inscription on the inside of it, six letters etched in capitals: _ K._ He wondered who this "Henry K" was – a fiancé had been his first guess, though she wore no ring – and why their Liaison carried it wherever she went.

He'd long since noticed the habit of hers, to carry it with her or idly fidget with the polished case. It obviously had some meaning to the woman, and it was because of that irrefutable fact that he couldn't justify keeping it. Had it belonged to anyone else he likely wouldn't have thought twice about keeping it, writing off his thievery as their own fault for being careless. "Sticky fingers," his mother had once said of him. Ron had been pocketing things that didn't belong to him since before he could walk. But, this was different.

_Tomorrow_, Ron decided silently. He would return it to her tomorrow, which wouldn't be difficult, as he didn't exactly reside very far from the woman. He scorned himself – again – for the way their conversation had ended, knowing it would make the process of returning the trinket uncomfortable for the both of them. Oh well. He tucked the cigarette case into his pocket and stood, putting on his hat to leave.

_Tomorrow. _

—

It's incredibly belated, but I'd like to just make a quick note of two things:

First, In Australia and New Zealand (where I'm from!), the 25th of April is the day of remembrance for the first major military action fought by the Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War (Anzac Day). It also commemorates all those who have served and died in _all_ wars, conflicts, and peacekeeping operations, and I'm very thankful for their sacrifices. "The killing of men must stop; the destruction of land must stop. I shall bury my patu in the earth and it shall not rise again" – Tāwhiao. Second, April 15th – 16th marked Yom Ha'Shoah, the day of remembrance for the Jewish lives lost during the Holocaust. This is a matter that is particularly close to my heart, and I'd like to remind all my wonderful readers to take a moment out of their day (even if it's no longer Shoah) to remember the _millions_ of lives – Jewish or otherwise – that were lost. We will never forget.

On a lighter note, thank you for reading and I appreciate every single one of you! Don't forget to review :)xx


	6. Chapter V

"I was fighting a small fight of my own which wasn't leading  
anywhere—but like a man with a bent spoon trying to dig through a  
cement wall I knew that a small fight was better than quitting:  
it kept the heart alive."

—Charles Bukowski

* * *

_Three Months Later…  
_23 March 1944  
Slapton Sands, Uppottery UK

_** T**__omorrow_ didn't come for Ronald Speirs, as fate would have it. Emilia was called back to London for a few days on matters that could not be divulged, and training intensified greatly for the men of the 101st Airborne almost instantly following the celebrations. 1944 had brought about new changes to the division, though none quite as large as the departure of Major General Lee. His return to the states, due to an ill-timed heart attack, had seen a major drop in morale for the soldiers in Aldbourne; the man that had founded the entirety of the 101st would not be there to accompany them to Europe. "The 101st has no history," he had told them, back in '42 when they were fresh off the trains from home. "But it has a rendezvous with destiny." And so destiny decreed that he would not rendezvous beside them. General Maxwell Taylor was to be the new leader of the 101st Airborne, and he wasted no time in exercising his authority.

A demonstration of American military power had been arranged for Prime Minister Winston Churchill, Commander General Eisenhower, and a handful of other high-ranking military and civilian officials. It was an important inspection for the men, to say the least, but a nerve-wracking one as well – it was the largest combined jump the regiment had ever orchestrated.

"A bunch of bigwigs gettin' together to watch us jump out of planes…" Perconte had said, climbing into the C-47 behind Luz. "What kind 'a sicko makes a day out of that, huh?"

"What kind 'a sicko volunteers to jump out of the planes in the first place, eh, Frank?" Luz retorted, cigarette hanging off the side of his mouth.

There was no room to argue. "Touché."

—

"A fine day for jumping out of a plane, I daresay." The Prime Minister spoke, squinting up at the blue expanse of sky. He, General Eisenhower, and many of the other officials were all spectating in a specially constructed grandstand to review the unit's jump. Emilia was standing a few feet behind them, where the shade could cover her from the bright sun; heat had ever been her enemy. She just wasn't built for it.

The Prime Minister continued: "How does that saying go? 'You need not a parachute to skydive; only to skydive twice.' Well, here's to hoping your chaps remembered their chutes."

General Taylor laughed the laugh of a diplomat, and the two men clinked their glasses together.

Emilia watched the PM for a moment. She had heard innumerable radio broadcast's of his, of course, and seen pictures in the paper – she'd even seen the man from a distance when she was in London, but never up close. He was much shorter in person than she would have guessed – but his ego certainly made up for what he lacked in height.

The distant roar of the C-47's could be heard in the distance, and it wasn't long before the planes appeared in a perfect V-formation. All those who had been speaking in the stand silenced at that moment, and Emilia slowly migrated to the railing to watch the 2cd and 3rd Battalions make their mark on the brass.

Once the men started jumping from the planes, Emilia held her breath; She could still recall losing a man to parachute failure in December, and was praying silently that no such malfunctions would happen then and there. There was no need, though, as the troopers all leaped from the 47's successfully – a thousand men falling from the sky in a perfect demonstration.

Strangely, the whole show reminded Emilia of blowing the seeds off a dandelion, and watching them being carried through the wind. There were hushed whispers of admiration at the uniform presentation thus far, and the woman couldn't help but smile out of pride for the men of Second Battalion. Immediately upon landing, they all spun from their parachutes and made way for the assembly area, impressing the spectators further with their rapidity in assembling weaponry without hesitation. Emilia heard Churchill mutter something to General Taylor, and she glanced sidelong at the General to catch the ghost of a smirk on his face.

The boys from Currahee had made a grand impression, indeed.

"General Montgomery was right," General Eisenhower said to Emilia, who of which hadn't realised she was standing beside the American leader. She wasn't sure of what to say at first, not having expected anyone to pay her much attention. What was one to say when the Allied Supreme Commander spoke to them?

"Sir?"

"I pity the Germans after seeing these boys, too."

He took a sip of his champagne, then left her alone to join General Taylor, McAuliffe, and Churchill a few feet away. Emilia looked down at the men, recognising a few that she was more familiar with – there was Buck, then Luz. She saw Muck, too, who had a skip to his step as they lined up. Her gaze hesitated on one figure in particular, in D-company's line up, and when she spoke it was naught but a whisper: "So do I."

"So do you?" A crisp, British accent startled her, and she turned – half-expecting another high-ranking official to put her on edge – but calmed when she saw it was no such person. The man standing behind her was taller than most of the others, blonde, and his striking blue eyes had been what first had caught her attention.

"What…?"

"Terribly sorry," he had a charming smile. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you, there. Flight Lieutenant Finn Halloran," he shook her hand, and gestured toward the men. "One of the lucky devils tasked with flying your boys into war. Care for a drink?"

—

"Next thing you know they're gonna be watchin' us wipe our asses."

"Fantasy of yours, Liebgott?" Malarkey inquired with a grin, jogging beside his comrades as they all lined up before the reviewing stand. "Might want to keep that one to yourself, buddy."

General Taylor had invited both Churchill and Eisenhower to inspect the ranks up close, and it was general procedure for them to stop amongst the way and ask some of the men a few questions. Emilia was trailing not far behind them, accompanied by the British officer she'd met before – one of their finest pilots, as she'd gathered from Churchill's fondness for the man. He was a likable man, truly, and she could understand why he'd been picked for the mission; he wasn't only flying the men into war, but he was the one carrying all the highest ranking officials, Sink and Strayer included. He'd even offered to show Emilia the plane he'd be flying later on in the day, which she looked forward to with childlike excitement; planes fascinated her.

He seemed to quite interested in Emilia's work with Second Battalion, too. A part of her wondered if he was perhaps amusing her on the topic, tickled with the idea of a woman at work, but to her surprise, there was a genuine curiosity in his voice. Emilia wasn't very used to it.

"Soldier," Eisenhower stopped before Malarkey. "Where are you from?"

It was the first question he always asked the men he inspected.

Malarkey seemed to panic inwardly for a moment, obviously not having expected to be singled out, but he answered in a surprisingly clear voice: "Astoria, Oregon."

They exchanged a few more words, pertaining to a University in America that Emilia was unfamiliar with. To Emilia, it seemed a pleasant conversation, one that would most certainly become quite the story for Malarkey to tell when war was but a distant memory. Eisenhower then turned to Churchill, suggesting that he, too, might have a question for the young man.

"Well, son," he puffed out a bit of smoke from his pipe. "How do you like England?"

"V—very much, Prime Minister, sir." His eyes flickered towards Emilia, and she gave him a reassuring smile. "…I've always been very fond of English literature, and history, too, of course."

"Good chap," Churchill chuckled, looking amusedly at Eisenhower and Taylor before nodding in parting to Malarkey. "We'll get you all back to the States soon enough, take my word for it…" They moved along the ranks toward where F-company was standing ready, but Emilia slowed her gait rather than following after them, beaming at the men of Easy.

"Congratulations, _chaps_. I believe you all made a fine impression,"

"Yeah," said Dick, grinning. "Only had to jump out of a plane to do it."

"Next thing you know, they're gonna be havin' us jump off a cliff," Muck added.

Luz scoffed. "Nah, just you, Skip."

"Well, you all did a swell job of it."

"Good thing, too, ma'am," Liebgott spoke up from behind the front line, a strange smile adorning his face as he regarded her. "Wouldn't want you to get rid of us the way you got rid of Captain Sobel, after all."

An uncomfortably tense silence followed, during which Buck Compton shot Liebgott a glare that no one knew the fellow was quite capable of. For her part, Emilia was far too taken aback by the comment to form a proper reply, and by the time she'd begun to wrap her lips around a word, Lieutenant Halloran had returned to claim her attention.

"I can show you the glider now, if you'd like…?" He'd started off chipper in tone, grinning both at Emilia and the men, though it faded halfway through his suggestion. Halloran seemed to sense that he'd walked in on a tense moment, but Emilia was grateful for the excuse to leave.

"I didn't interrupt anything back there, I hope?" Halloran broke their uncomfortable silence, looking at her sidelong as they made their way to the airfield. It was much too long of a way to walk, but he had explained earlier that he had come in a car. She was glad for it, too, as she was wearing heels. "It seemed a bit…"

"No," she answered quickly. "You didn't. Not at all."

"Right... Well, I think you're going to like her, our Horsa. She's much bigger than those American _Hadrian's. _It can fit _thirty_ men, did you know? Of course, it's better to have only twenty-five. Much sturdier than those Gooney Bird's they've got the lot of your chaps in—sorry, the C-47's, I mean. Holds the same amount of men though…" He babbled away quite happily, and Emilia walked alongside him silently, completely lost on what exactly he was trying to explain to her, but lacking the heart to stop him at any rate.

...

Ronald Speirs' unwavering gaze had yet to leave Emilia's slight form since he'd spotted her trailing behind the British Prime Minister. Their interactions had been brief and uncomfortable since January, if not avoided entirely. He couldn't blame her, of course, Ron knew he wasn't exactly the easiest person to converse with – he was the same way before the war, too. It didn't help that the woman seemed to be so disgustingly, stubbornly optimistic, though. There was no room for that, in his opinion, lest it be on posters for propaganda. What war really needed were realists – not pessimists or optimists, but _realists_.

Once the inspection ended, the Lieutenant made his way toward the ever-shrinking figures of Emilia and whomever it was that she was with. It was, then, as good a time as any to return her property to her, and truth be told Ron just wanted to get it over with.

"Ma'am?" his voice sounded gruff when at last he caught up to them, having had to jog to meet their pace. Emilia turned first, followed by the British officer who had been speaking. A quick salute was exchanged between the two of them, before green eyes met brown. Reaching in his inner pocket, Ron pulled out the smooth case, holding it up for her view. The crease that had formed between her brows disappeared, and the wave of relief that seemed to wash over her was visible.

"I never thought I'd see it again. _You_ found this?" She took it as he handed it to her, and he shook his head.

"You left it at the Boar on New Years, actually." He clarified, and she looked up with an arched brow.

"I'll be waiting in the car, Agent Rösner," the other man said to Emilia, excusing himself with a curt nod before leaving the two. She nodded absently in reply, saying nothing, but looking back at the cigarette case.

"My lucky charm…" she ran her fingers over the inscription absently, as if being reunited with an old friend, before looking back to him. "New Years... _Three_ months you've had this, and you're only getting it back to me now?" She wasn't annoyed, but there was a curious amusement in her voice. Ron would have preferred her to be upset with him, at least then it wouldn't seem as though every word she spoke was a tease.

"And, when would I have given it to you? You've done a fine job of turning the opposite direction whenever you see me coming."

She scoffed. "Ah. Right, of course it's _my_ fault."

He was going to leave after that, report back to his platoon, but there was something about the look in man-in-the-truck's eye that made Ron want to claim Emilia's attention for a moment longer. There was a question he'd wanted to ask for three months, too, about why the trinket meant so much to her. Even in wartime he figured she could find a better one, and he'd noticed that Emilia never purchased another in its absence. So, Ron asked in the simplest way he could, knowing her answer would also answer the one he had not asked:

"Henry K, ma'am. He your sweetheart?"

She gave him a curious look, not fully understanding what he meant, but a moment passed and her face split with an amused smile.

"Henry K?" she laughed before repeating the name. "_Henry K_."

Ron hadn't expected that. "Ma'am?"

"_Henryk_," she spoke the name firmly, still amused at the mistake, but giving him a look as if to say: _you bloody yanks_. "It says Henryk. He's my brother. It was—it _is_ his."

Ron didn't miss the slip up. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No, It's not—don't—he isn't _dead_," she didn't look amused any longer, but flustered. "He can't be. I would—the last I heard he was… oh, it doesn't matter. It's all so complicated, this war, you know? One minute they're safe, and the next thing you know you haven't heard anything in over a year and—..." at the look on Ron's face, she spoke again, dejected. "I suppose you could say he's missing in action."

"I'm sorry," Ron studied her face, and she avoided his eyes.

"Don't be," she said quickly, looking at the vehicle behind her where the British pilot seemed to be growing impatient, foot tapping on the car's floor rhythmically. Emilia didn't leave however, and looked instead back at Ron. "Please don't be."

Ron translated her words: _Don't be sorry. If you're sorry, that means you think he's dead, too._

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset. As a matter of fact, I think out of all our conversations, Lieutenant, this one was the _least_ upsetting." She smiled, and it was almost convincing. "Besides, a handsome man like yourself? If you're not already, you should be used to upsetting all the ladies." She stepped into the car at last, curls bouncing as she sat beside the other man. Ron put his hand on the car door before he could drive away, but if the man was irritated, he didn't know it; his eyes were on Emilia.

Ron spoke, hearing the grin in his voice: "You think I'm handsome, ma'am?"

A beat. "You know you are," he caught a slight blush on her cheeks, and he suspected that his grin must have widened. The British man cleared his throat, and she looked away. "Thank you for giving this back, Lieutenant Speirs."

Ron took a step back, and watched as the car drove off.

—

"What the hell's your problem, Liebgott?" Webster tore into the other trooper as soon as he got the chance to, taking the time to also strip down to his undershirt – the heat had gotten unbearable in the forty-five minutes they'd been forced to stand in attention.

"You weren't exactly Sobel's biggest fan if I recall correctly," Muck said rationally.

"The fuck do you care if she had somethin' to do with gettin' him outta our hair, anyway? If that's true, I think you oughtta be sendin' her a thank-you note rather than bein' such a goddamn smartass." Guarnere collapsed on one of the bunks, fanning himself with an adult magazine.

"Or do what Luz's doin'; _propose_," said Penkala.

"Yeah," Luz held up a pen. "Writin' to my folks about the good news as we speak."

"Jesus, she's got you all wrapped around her finger, doesn't she?" Liebgott shook his head, still grinning as though he were all knowing. "Put the dots together, fellas. Come on, we get a liaison pokin' around in here a few months before our big jump, palin' around with us, sends reports of only god-knows-what to god-knows-who, got a German-sounding name, never talks about her personal life, and then somehow manages to rid of our commanding officer who just so happens to be a Jew… you don't think that's at all fishy?"

"I think you're fuckin' paranoid, is what I think." Luz said, a cigarette between his lips.

"I agree with that statement," said Malarkey. "You're watchin' too many spy flicks, Joe."

Guarnere sat up on his elbows. "Is that a Jew thing? Bein' paranoid?"

"Gee, I don't know, Guarnere, is it a fuckin' Italian thing to have a broken nose, because you're about to—!"

Winters walked in before the conversation could escalate any further, and it was with reluctance that Liebgott sat back in his bunk, glaring at the sergeant with all the animosity he could muster – which, to anyone that knew Joe Liebgott could attest – was rather a lot.

* * *

Sorry about the wait on this chapter! Things have been a bit stressful on my end, but I hope things are going well for all my beautiful readers! I'm not overly happy with this one, and I wanted to make it longer, but unfortunately I just couldn't find the right words to do so. It's a filler chapter more than anything, though, so I guess I can live with it. I'm really, really looking forward to the next chapter (almost to the jump), though, so you guys can all expect that one to be much lengthier! I'll try to update again as soon as possible, but I can't promise anything. In the meantime, please send in some reviews! Your guys' feedback means the world to me :)xx


	7. Chapter VI

This chapter is so late, and I am so sorry! The summer was very busy for me, and I didn't get to write as much as I had originally wanted unfortunately. I am back now, though, and as an official apology I made this chapter longer than the last few, not so angsty, and put in a disgusting amount of interaction between Ron &amp; Emilia. Gross, I know. But in the next chapter we'll be saying farewell to rainy Britain, if you catch my meaning, so I thought a nice filler chapter would be welcome. Also: just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone that favourited, followed, and reviewed! It means the world to me and kept me going through my little block. Shout out to howdystrangers for sending love to my tumblr for this story! The support is much appreciated. Happy reading! xx

* * *

CHAPTER VI

"Every morning, I wake up and forget just for a second that it happened.

But once my eyes open, it buries me like a landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes open,

I'm heavy, like there's too much gravity on my heart."

* * *

29 April 1944  
London, England UK

_Footsteps on pavement – rushed, but steady. Eyes cast downwards, hats pulled over eyes, strands of hair flying away from once-neat curls. Blood rushes impossibly fast through tormented veins. More steps, not theirs, falling in heavy footfalls. They're getting closer. But, they fall so cruelly, those other boots, on the cobblestone paths, so harsh and demanding. Closer, still. They can't look back. If they look back, they'll lose. They can't lose. They're getting closer! They start to run. Her hand reaches for his, but she can't find it. He opens his mouth, he tells her to run. And then he's gone. She can't hear him, all she hears is – _

The train's whistle gave a harsh cry as it stopped, startling the woman awake and causing her to knock her forehead against the glass. As far as being woken up went, it wasn't the best instance – but then, it wasn't the worst either. At least it did the trick in _really_ waking her up, for the remnants of bad dreams were all but vanished from her mind.

Skip Muck stuck his head in cheerfully at that moment. "Welcome to London, Slim."

As if neither of them had ever been.

"I think today's gonna be a really swell day, don't you? Real swell."

And then he was gone.

—

It was raining in London. The station café was full of soldiers, all varying of rank, looking for what good times there were to be had before confronting the nearing fields of opposition. A weekend pass could mean a lot to a man on the brink of such a thing. London was, to the brave soldiers of the allied force, a breath of fresh air – despite being quite the opposite in the literal sense – with the country air came training and stress, the ever-present reminder of battle looming on the horizon, but the city? The city offered an escape, however temporary; a chance to forget what responsibilities had been thrust upon the world's youth. Perhaps they often wondered if people in Berlin had the same thoughts, but then maybe it was easier to think that they didn't.

Emilia was sat at one of the corner tables, a closed book on the table between her, Buck Compton, and Skip Muck, who was enthusiastically telling her stories of the man he'd come to meet - his best friend's older brother, apparently, who had seen already seen action in Sicily and elsewhere with the 82cd airborne. They were all so excited, she thought, to go to war and victory and relish in the stories of other men. She wondered what it would be like, to see the transition from idealistic youths to hardened soldiers; the real cost of war.

"I don't know, it's just gonna be a nice change, y'know?" He spoke between mouthfuls of a blueberry scone. "Bein' able to talk to someone who ain't gonna bullshit us about what's over really waitin' for us, after the jump. Someone who's opinion I can really trust, y'know?"

"You don't think Strayer, Sink, and Meehan have trustworthy opinions?"

"Nah, it ain't that…" he pushed his lips out in thought. "I just think they sugar coat it all… 'cos they gotta, for our benefit. I mean, don't get me wrong or anything—I ain't complainin', I don't need all the gory details. I get it. What with how they are with keepin' moral up and sh—tuff."

Emilia scoffed, sharing a knowing look with Buck. "And _schtuff_. Yes, I'm aware."

"Hey. Can't swear in front of the lady," Muck reasoned.

"Lady? What lady?" Buck asked, exaggeratedly looking around.

Emilia glared at the man, and Muck continued: "It'll just be a relief, hearin' about it from someone like us."

He didn't mean it in that way, but Emilia couldn't help but feel somewhat ostracised by the comment. Like _us_, he'd said, like all the other men waiting to be shipped off to god knows where, linked to one another in that single, unavoidable fate. Unlike _her_, who would play the endless game of waiting and waiting for the white flags to rise, hoping it wouldn't be hands like hers hoisting them up.

"When are you going to meet him?"

"Eager to get rid of us already, Slim, my dear?" Muck grinned. His grin only widened at her glare. "In a minute, just waiting for Malarkey to stop chattin' up that broad over there. _Jesus_, look at him—" they all turned toward the counter, witnessing a rather bashful looking sergeant.

Buck chuckled. "You'd think he never saw a girl before. I should probably get him outta here, save the poor thing. We'll see you back on the train, huh?" When she nodded, they both stood up, putting on caps.

Skip spoke with feigned concern. "Don't get into too much trouble without me, y'hear?"

"I can't promise anything."

"Atta girl," Buck said, and Muck saluted with exaggerated effort before going to his friend, the slightest skip to his step that put a smile on Emilia's face.

There was something so much about him – Skip – that reminded her of Henryk, the shine in his eye perhaps, or that good nature that was nestled deep within him. It seemed that Muck could put a smile on the face of anyone he encountered, friendly in a way that not many could boast. She hoped he would keep that throughout the war, even when it seemed that all else was lost, he'd be able to return to his friends and family with the same glint in his eye and joke on his tongue. She hoped, too, that her brother would return to her similarly, but those were hopes that were best to be locked away, _deep_—especially on that day, when she'd promised herself to try, for just that once, to enjoy herself for a day rather than angst over that which she had no control over, as she did all other days. At the very least, some peace.

"Anyone sittin' here?" She looked up to see Nixon, wielding a piece of paper. "I think I've got something that might interest you."

So much for peace.

—

Across the café, leaning against the bar with coffee far too hot, stood Lieutenant Speirs and Private DiMarzio – or Jumbo, as he'd been nicknamed. They were as unaware of Emilia's presence as she was theirs, and instead spoke of other affairs – mainly what there was to see and do in London during their short visit, and then there was the occasional mention of a pretty broad that walked by – a blonde one in particular, with whom Jumbo was currently trying his luck. It wasn't until the door chimed open once again that Ron's attention was garnered away from his companions amusing attempts, fixed instead on a leaving soldier – Lieutenant Nixon, as it turned out. Curious. Ron would have figured him to be spending the day at some pub somewhere, whiskey in one hand and a damn in the other. It was in retracing the other man's path that he finally noticed the agent's presence, and suddenly every other dame in the vicinity became a lot less interesting.

Jumbo didn't notice when he left.

"You look like you just found out there's a war on," a pause followed. "Ma'am."

Emilia – who'd been focusing on a falling drop of rain mournfully – looked up. "There's a war on?"

"I'm sorry to break it to you."

She smiled, but he noted it was slightly forced – pulling at her cheeks with an exaggeration that the line, lame as it was, didn't deserved. He supposed he'd ought to be grateful for the effort, and Ron supposed he was. He was more grateful, though, at her offer for him to join her. It was a strange kind of pull he felt towards the young woman – no younger than himself – and it drove him mad at times, that he couldn't place his finger on it. Maybe, it was just because she was _there_; some piece of normal to cling to amongst the storm of preparation and endless waiting – a distraction, as she had been since she arrived. That was all. A distraction.

She fiddled with a silver spoon, and he spoke again. "The coffee's good here..."

"I'm not having coffee. It's tea." At his look, she continued: "What?"

"You actually drink that?"

"No, I just like to pour into cups and stir it around."

"It just tastes like boiled water to me."

"It _is_ boiled water."

"Ah. I knew there had to be a reason."

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms on the table. "What are you doing here, lieutenant?"

"Weekend pass, ma'am."

"That's not what I meant."

"It's impolite, isn't it? To see someone you know and not say hello, at the very least. All right, _Fine_. I'll admit, too, to being the slightest bit curious as to what Nixon had to say. Why, do you want me to leave, ma'am?"

She shook her head, sitting up straight. "Not what I meant either. And, _that_ wasn't anything important, just… battalion news, I suppose. Nothing exciting, and it's classified in any case, though I do applaud your effort, Lieutenant Speirs." She smiled, then continued: "I'm surprised you're still here. I figured you all would be deeper in the city by now, causing trouble or… well, that's all you men ever do, isn't it?"

"Truth be told, ma'am, I would have preferred to stay in Aldbourne. I only came out for the men," he explained. It did them well, to see their commanding officers out and amongst them every once in awhile. It was no harm to him either, to breathe the city air. "And you? Are you staying here until your boiled water gets cold, or do you have plans to cause trouble of your own?"

She shook her head, but smiled softly. "No. There's this… social gathering that I was invited to. Not exactly a party. Too boring, I'd reckon. Just a lot of officers and their wives talking about things they don't understand or really care about. My plan was to sit here until it stopped raining, or until I decided whether or not I wanted to go."

"Why wouldn't you want to?"

"Aside from the fact that today is meant to be a break from the brass? The Lieutenant invited me – Halloran. I'm not sure if you remember him. He was at the demonstration awhile back, in Uppottery. When you gave me back my cigarette case." She leaned on the table, lowering her voice somewhat to give the impression of discretion. "Which would be fine, usually, but… well, between the two of us, Lieutenant, I've the slightest suspicion that I'm being courted."

Ron's expression shifted subtly, but she took no notice of it.

"I see. Isn't that what you want?"

"No… what do you mean?"

"What all women want," Ron leaned back in his chair, the previous good humour souring somewhat. He wasn't entirely sure what bothered him more: the idea of her and that stuffy officer, or that he cared even about it in the first place. He spoke again, as if his point were obvious and he wasn't in the least bit bitter. "For some decorated officer to take a notice in them. Isn't that the dream for all of you, Agent? Fancy parties, boiled water, important people, and a nice uniform to show off back home," He pulled a cigarette from his uniform pocket, placing it between his lips. "That's how it is everywhere."

"Unbelievable," Emilia exhaled, shaking her head. "Is that what you think of me? Do you think all women join the war effort to find themselves a husband, of all things, Lieutenant? And—… you know what? Even if some of us do, that's no concern of yours. You—you think you're some kind of expert on everything. On war, on women." She crossed her arms over her chest, exhaling irritably.

"What's the difference?" Ron felt the slightest satisfaction at her frustration, at seeing the fire peek through her ever composed self. Of course he didn't think all women joined the army for such demure reasons. He had a profound respect, in reality, for her and every other woman that chose to be there despite societal norms. But, it was far too easy to rile her up, and he wasn't going to miss out on the opportunity to distract from his own, sudden, irritations or insecurities.

She scoffed, and looked back out the window. "You have no idea what I want."

He softened at that, feeling a tinge of guilt in provoking her so.

"Don't I?" She looked back at him. "You want to find your brother."

It may not have been his place to say such a thing, but he found himself forming the words before he could stop them.

Emilia, for her part, looked uncharacteristically taken aback by the reply – unexpected, entirely. She remembered telling him a little about Henryk, when he gave her back that small piece of her brother that she thought she'd lost, but she hadn't expected the Lieutenant to remember it well enough to mention. She knew he had a penchant for pushing her buttons, for knowing exactly what to say to get a rise out of her, but she didn't imagine that his familiarity with her could go beyond that. That he could know, too, what to say to erase that exasperation entirely. Emilia wasn't sure why that scared her, a little.

"I… should be going," She slid the book into her purse, putting it on the table, standing and hesitating only slightly when he stood, too. "It was nice seeing you, Lieutenant. I—I'll see you back in Aldbourne. Good day," she didn't wait for his reply, but turned on her heel instead, still trying to put her coat on in the retreat and pretending not to hear whatever he was saying as she left.

It was such a strange back and forth between them, she thought. Emilia enjoyed her conversations with the lieutenant as much as with anyone else, or perhaps a little more than she ought to have, but they always seemed to end before either could figure out exactly what to say to each other. Even with all their disagreements and the frustrations those occurrences were laden with, she couldn't deny an almost intriguing factor in her interactions with the man. It was enough, even, to sometimes leave her looking forward to the next meetings. But those weren't the kinds of thoughts she was willing to entertain in such times. Maybe in another life, she could, but not this one. In this one, perhaps, she thought it would be best to stay away from him; him and those eyes that seemed look right through her. He would be gone soon, after all. Just like all the rest of them.

_Yes_, she thought, that would be for the best.

But, what was for the best seemed to be ignored entirely, as it was just then that he caught up with her at the street corner.

"What—" she turned toward him, hands frozen on the beret she'd been adjusting.

"You forgot this," he held out her purse, and after a moment of consideration, she laughed.

"Thank you. I'm surprised it didn't take you three months to get _this_ back to me as well."

His head ducked in an attempt to sequester the grin that formed, but he figured it was a lost cause – and he was right, she saw it. Ron thought about leaving it at that, a stolen smile on a crowded street, but he instead allowed himself a moment to look at her. She looked pale – her cheeks flushed and pink from the cold – dark hair brushing the tops of her shoulders, speckled with drops of rain. They were there on her eyelashes too, he noticed, not having realised he was close enough to do so. He swallowed, and looked off down the street.

"Walk with me?"

She didn't take the time to think about it. "All right."

...

It had stopped raining about half an hour into their walk, but London was still grey and cloudy well into it, the sun just barely peaking through the blanket of clouds above a blitz-ridden city. Emilia stepped over a puddle, noticing with some amount of exasperation that there was a bit of mud on her heels. And, they were new, too. Oh well. That's what she got, she supposed, for wearing nice shoes in the middle of April. She glanced – briefly – at Ron, sidelong, before stepping around another puddle. His hair was mussed slightly, likely from the rain, strands rebelling from the military mould. Emilia thought it looked nice that way, but she didn't say as much when he smoothed it back. Instead, she listened as he told her about Boston – about his childhood there, siblings, and a little about Scotland, too. He told her, also, about how he'd studied to be an accountant, of all things, however brief the endeavour had been. It was a funny picture, she'd mused, the thought of him in an office somewhere running endless numbers – or doing whatever it was accountants did, for she wasn't certain.

Would he go back to it, after the war? Would there even be an _after_ for him?

"That sounds... _exciting_."

"It wasn't," Ron chuckled. "But, it was stable. I made it home for dinner every night, much to my mother's delight, and was damn – excuse me, ma'am – _pretty_ close to affording an apartment downtown, much to my father's delight."

"Wanted to kick you out, did he?"

He shook his head. "No, not so much. Just wanted us all to start our lives, I think, be proper Americans. My mother held us close; _too_ close, sometimes, like all mothers do. My father's always been better at letting us go, with some exceptions. The war having been the main one."

"It was opposite for me," she sighed. War had come, and she'd all but been shoved out the front door. She didn't want to think about that, though.

A wide smile broke through a moment later.

Ron glanced at her. "Why are you smiling?"

"I was picturing you in an office. Lipstick on your cheek from mummy," she tapped her forefinger to her cheek, but at his face she forced herself to frown, and gave a short nod. "It's an improvement."

"That's very funny," He could still see the cheeky grin pulling at the corners of her lips, despite her poor effort. "And how should I picture you, before all of this?"

"Me? You can picture me…" She hummed. Emilia couldn't even picture herself before the war. _You can picture me happy. _What was happy? Happiness was playing in the autumn leaves. It was her father's cello, and her mother's smile. It was her sister, brushing her hair before bed, and her brother's laughter as they raced down the street. _Yes_, she thought. "You can picture me happy."

Ron considered that, hands in pockets, as they reached the bus stop at last; her bus, not his. He would be returning to his men to drink stale beer and flirt with faceless dames, while she was off to attend fancy gatherings with expensive wine and tiny sandwiches; neither of them spending the day how they really wanted to.

"You're not happy now?"

"Is anyone, in war? It would feel wrong somehow, I think, to be happy now." She pulled a cigarette from her case, nodding gratefully when the Lieutenant moved to light it for her. She studied him for a moment, blowing the smoke to the side. "Are you?"

"No," he bit his bottom lip, thinking about it. "I don't know. I don't think I've ever really been."

"That makes me sad."

"I didn't say it for your pity, ma'am," he spoke sharply.

Emilia sighed. She didn't pity him, and she hated his tone, but neither did she much feel like fighting him in that moment. So, she settled with a soft "Sorry," and pretended not to feel her cheeks heat up at his scolding tone. She looked away, shoulders falling slightly. "This whole war makes me sad, among other things – _emotions_. I just wish it would stop dragging on, endlessly. I'd like very much for it all to be over."

Ron's lips twitched as he watched as the bus rolled up, and he felt the need to make amends. "I'll win the war for you."

And then, she smiled; _really_ smiled. There was nothing forced about the gesture this time, as she looked at him again. It bloomed and blossomed across her features without the slightest bit of hesitation, and – to Ron – it felt as though the sun was shining in London again. "That would be nice."

"Goodbye, Agent Rösner."

"I'll see you, Lieutenant."

—

Elsewhere in London, in a little pub no one remembered the name of, six soldiers were huddled around a small table. Among them was: Chuck Grant, Joe Toye, Donald Malarkey, Skip Muck, Fritz Niland, and Bob Niland – the latter two were brothers, friends of Skip's, from back home in Tonawanda. The entire evening would be spent in that little pub, but it wasn't as thrilling a trip as they'd all imagined on the train. There were few jokes exchanged amongst the men, no girls were brought to the table to be charmed by the seasoned soldiers, and there weren't any generous patrons offering to buy drinks for the brave boys from America. Instead, they all listened with heavy hearts to the stories Bob Niland recounted, knowing very soon they'd have tales of their own to tell idealistic trainees.

"If you want to be a hero," he'd told them, a rare grin forming on his lips that made him look but a shadow of his old self. "The Germans will make one out of you real quick—dead!"

Muck was put off the most, perhaps, by the encounter. But, then, what had he expected? For Bob to tell him war was glorious, and that men didn't really die but just... went back home. Like a game, or something. That was wishful thinking, perhaps, but he certainly wasn't expecting _this_. He could remember Bob well from the days before the war. Hell, those memories of the Niland boys were among the few that really kept him going through training. But, this man that sat across from him, dark circles beneath his eyes and jagged around the edges… Skip felt more familiar with the strangers on the street than he did this person he'd grown up with. Would this be his future, as well? To be disillusioned with war and life, finding no more pleasure in the world, but for bitter comments and morbid warnings made in dimly lit pubs.

_No_, he thought. No, I'll never be like this. _They'll have to take my life before they take my spirit. _

"Well, I don't know about you," Malarkey said to Skip, voice low so as to avoid prying ears. "But it seems to me like Bob Niland's lost his effectiveness."

—

The train's halls were full of shoving soldiers and girls who – purposefully or not – were stepping on their feet. Emilia was trying to navigate the train as carefully as one could, but it was to no avail. By the time she'd found who she'd been looking for, she'd already been elbowed in the stomach, stepped on thrice, and nearly shoved into an old man's lap. She really hated people who said they enjoyed train rides – it looked far more picturesque on film reels than it did in the flesh. She waved down Muck, who – along with Malarkey – was taking up space in the crowded, hectic halls despite being near their seats.

She wasn't at all surprised.

"How was it, then?" She spoke, a bit out of breath. "Your meeting?"

Malarkey gave a low whistle, before ducking inside the compartment to leave them. Emilia furrowed her brows, pulling off her gloves as she spoke again: "Bad?"

Skip Muck did a lot of thinking in a little bit of time. He could tell her the truth, all those bitter words and haunting stories that every soldier and civilian already knew (but pretended not to), or he could smile and say it was a swell time, just as he'd predicted. He'd probably sleep a little better, taking the first route, but _hell_... what good was there in worrying her? She could hide it very well, he had to admit, that caring nature she tried so hard to bury. Emilia just wasn't as good as she thought she was, truthfully. He could live with losing a bit of sleep over a white lie, if it meant she could rest easier and not worry about him. It wasn't as though he was expecting to get much sleep in the months to come, anyway. So, he just smiled, and shook his head.

"Nah. Malark's just bitter still, about that dame from earlier. Couldn't swing that number."

"What a shame,"

"For the best. She had freckles, too. The both of them together?" He whistled. "I'd pity that kid."

"You still haven't said how the talk with your friend went."

"What's there to say? He said everything I expected him to, y'know? Lots of pretty girls that don't know how to say 'no', plenty of krauts to shoot while passing the time, and the most comfortable beds waitin' for us. Honestly, I can hardly wait to get over there! Ah, but it was fine. He's the same old Bob, really. Still has that leap and shine from when we were kids. I'm relieved." He leaned against the compartment door, and hoped to god he wasn't overselling it. Her smile, relieved, made him think he'd done well. "Anyway, I'm more interested in hearing how your day went, Slim. Break any hearts? Did'ya end up goin' to that party?"

"Not as many as I'd have liked," she glared at a passing man, who'd just bumped into her quite rudely. "I did, and I can report that it was uneventful. Just a lot of overweight officers talking about accomplishments, and pretty women judging my muddy shoes. I think I prefer this hallway to it, honestly. I would have rather spent the day just..." she sighed then, but there was a soft smile on her lips. "... walking around the city."

"... in those shoes?"

"Shut up, Sergeant."

He snapped to attention, just as the whistle blew in warning. "Yes, ma'am. See ya back in the village," he adopted a thick, southern accent, and turned to join his friends. Emilia shook her head, moving on to find her own seat before the train started. Skip called after her, though, and she turned back a few feet away. He was sticking his head out the door, curiosity furrowing his brows. "I saw Nixon passing by when we left, earlier, sitting over with you. Anything worth sharing with me, a lowly soldier who cares nothing for gossip at all?"

She hesitated. "No. Nothing worth sharing."

_ Earlier that day…_

"Anyone sittin' here?" She looked up to see Nixon, wielding a piece of paper. "I think I've got something that might interest you."

"Be my guest," she gestured to the open chair, and almost laughed at how literal the expression was. She hadn't realised that before. English was a funny language. She crossed her arms on the table, looking at the piece of paper with a suspicious gaze. "I don't suppose that's Germany's unconditional surrender?"

"Wishful thinking," Nixon clicked his tongue. "Thought they stamped that outta you Brits in '39."

"Well. I'm a rare breed of optimist, what can I say?"

He chuckled, and they both ordered tea when the server found their table. "Wish I could say you were right," Nixon waited for the server to walk away before he slid the paper across the table, and Emilia almost made jest of the secretive behaviour – everyone in Intelligence always acted like spies in a film – but he spoke again before she got the chance. "It's our date."

"I'm flattered, but I'll have to decline. I don't have the patience to be a mistress."

"No," he scoffed, putting milk in his tea. "We got our _date_." Emilia's grin slowly slid off her face with realisation, and she looked at him for only a moment longer before picking up the paper and scanning it over herself. Nixon continued: "It's not final, of course – subject to change, and all that, which is why it's on a strictly need-to-know basis for the time being. May's gonna be one hell of a month in training for the boys, I'll tell ya. Our last month in Aldbourne."

He didn't mean for it to sound so ominous.

Emilia stared at the paper, seeing but not seeing. She wasn't entirely sure how to react, or if there was even a right way to do so. She felt as though she'd just been cursed to know the date of so many men's deaths, and that knowledge weighed down the paper in her hands. _Men die everyday_, a voice told her. But, not like this. "June fifth?" she said, looking up at last.

He dropped a cube of sugar in his cup and hers, nodding, but neither of them drank.

"June fifth."


End file.
